


The Cornish Cottage

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 06:25:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of John's divorce, Sherlock tries to cheer him up with a trip to Cornwall. Adaptation of ACD's The Adventure of the Devil's Foot.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Written for Pipmer1 as part of the Help_Syria auction.</p>
<p>Huge thanks to Avawatson for kicking this into some sort of decent shape. Any mistakes or accidental cultural insensitivity that remain are entirely my fault, and I apologise for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cornish Cottage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PipMer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/gifts).



John had been unacceptably quiet since he'd moved back into Baker Street. The divorce had turned him into a shadow of the man that Sherlock knew him to be, seemingly uninterested in doing much more than sitting in his chair, staring through the television screen as if he could fool Sherlock into thinking that he was paying any attention to what it was showing.

Sherlock hated it. He hated that he'd finally got John back where he belonged, living in 221B with him, and yet he couldn't properly enjoy it because John was so obviously miserable. After three years of being away from home, and then nearly two years of suffering through John living somewhere else, with that woman, he felt that he deserved to have John Watson back with him as he should be; quietly amused by Sherlock's habits and ready to run off after a criminal at the drop of a hat.

John didn't even seem to notice Sherlock's habits these days. Things that used to cause an outpouring of frustrated swearing when they lived together before barely even cause a frown now. Sherlock couldn't even get a reaction by blowing up the kettle, something that previously would have caused a towering rage and a threat to move out. Instead, John just let out a quiet sigh as if he should have expected that the world would be cruel enough to deny him his morning cuppa, and then sat down with a glass of water instead. It made Sherlock feel so guilty that he went down to Speedy's to get John a cup of their tea, and then replaced the kettle before lunchtime.

As for running after criminals, it was all Sherlock could do to get John to come along to crime scenes now. Once there, he did little more than stand in the background, smiling uncomfortably at the police. Sherlock couldn't seem to engage his interest in making observations, not even when he went out of his way to ask leading questions that should have led him to make his own deductions and, if he had even a iota of intelligence, solving the case.

Sherlock had done his best to be gentle with him, but he was unable to prevent himself from lashing out at how slow John's mind was now.

“No, come on, think, John! If he's wearing a suit with trainers, that means his commute is unsuitable for his work shoes. And look, here – circular marks on his trouser legs from his bike clips. Clearly he cycled to and from work – even Lestrade must have realised that!”

Lestrade cleared his throat. “We haven't found a bike though.”

Sherlock plunged his hands into his hair with frustration. “And what does that mean? Anyone? John?”

There was a long pause. “The murderer stole his bike?” suggested Lestrade when it became clear that John wasn't going to speak.

Sherlock could have wept. “Of course not! It's not just the bike that's missing – there are no tire marks anywhere near the body. He had already got rid of the bike, and yet he wasn't home yet – he still had to cross this park. So...” 

He trailed off and then stared at John, trying to will the answer into his brain. It was so obvious! If he just raised himself out of his lethargy for a bit, he'd get it.

John was staring at Sherlock with a glazed expression that made Sherlock suspect that he wasn’t really seeing him.

“So he had a Barclays bike!” he snapped with a violent gesture designed to refocus John’s attention on the moment. “Come on, we passed the stand on the way here – don't you pay any attention to your surroundings at all?”

John blinked as if coming out of a trance. “Guess not,” he said with a rueful smile.

It was infuriating. Why wasn't John getting angry? He should be visibly annoyed with Sherlock's attitude by now, if not actually snapping back. Instead, he just looked exhausted. It made Sherlock want to punch things.

“Right,” said Lestrade. “So, what does that tell us?”

Sherlock sighed. “The time of death means that he was late coming home. If you get the records of when he got the bike, you'll be able to see if he was delayed at work or on his ride home.”

“Right,” said Lestrade, and he nodded at a near-by constable to look into that.

Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. He looked at John again, only to find that his attention had wandered to the corpse. Sherlock followed his gaze, wondering if he had spotted something Sherlock had missed, but John was just staring at the body's wedding ring. Sherlock felt like groaning.

“When you've identified which bike he had,” he said, stepping in front of the corpse to block John’s view of it, “John and I will go and have a look at it to see if there are any clues in the tire treads.”

“Actually, I think I'm going to head home,” said John. “It's getting a bit late, and I've got work tomorrow.”

Sherlock stared at him. It was barely even eleven. John used to stay up all night for a case without complaining more than once an hour about how tired he was going to be at work the next day. His marriage hadn't changed that, beyond adding in a pause to text Mary roughly once every two hours.

“It was good to see you, Greg,” John said to Lestrade with a nod. “I'll see you at the flat, Sherlock.” He didn't bother waiting for a reply from Sherlock before turning and heading in the direction of the nearest tube station.

What was Sherlock meant to do? How could he help John feel better if a case had no effect? What other methods were there for cheering people up?

“Poor chap,” said Lestrade, watching John go. “He's taking it hard.”

Sherlock turned his gaze on him. “You were divorced,” he said. “You weren't like this.”

Lestrade snorted. “How would you know if I was?” he asked. “You only ever see me when I'm working.”

Sherlock waved that away. “You were still engaged with the work. There was no noticeable dip in your abilities. How did you manage that?”

Lestrade sighed. “They're different situations,” he said. “My divorce was a long time coming. I probably could have told you it was going to happen a year or two before it did. John was only married for, what a year and a half?”

“One year and seven months,” said Sherlock.

“Right,” said Lestrade. “That's hardly any time – he went from planning the rest of his life with her to the end of it all in the time that most people are still blissful newly weds. He's got to be suffering whiplash, on top of everything else.”

Sherlock considered that. He'd gone from meeting John to sacrificing everything for him in less time. Whiplash did seem an accurate description for the whirl of emotions that he had experienced in the first few months of his time away, when he was still trying to get his head around how he could care so much for someone when he had previously found even casual friendships to be too much effort.

“I see,” he said. He would have to factor that into whatever plan he came up with to help John get over it. If only he had some idea of what that plan might be. Frustration welled up in him – this wasn't his area. He had no idea what you were meant to do with an emotionally-distraught friend.

He looked at Lestrade. “Regardless of the differences between your situations, you still have more experience with John's current emotional state than I do.”

“Well, yeah,” agreed Lestrade. “Don't you claim to be married to your work? Can't imagine you ever getting a divorce.”

Sherlock had done exactly that when he’d jumped off a building and spent three years committing more crimes than he solved. Perhaps that counted more as a separation than a divorce though, as he had eventually been reunited with his work. 

He didn't bother mentioning that to Lestrade. “Then you almost certainly have a better idea of what might help,” he said instead.

Lestrade sighed. “Don't know that much will, other than time. You just have to work through these things, really.”

That was not the answer that Sherlock wanted. He made a face.

“Tell you what helped with that, though,” said Lestrade in a musing voice. “I went away for a couple of weeks – don't know if you remember.”

Sherlock nodded. “Somewhere with a warm climate and shops that sell knock-off designer sunglasses,” he remembered. “You came back in time to join us in Dartmoor.”

“I stayed with my cousin in the south of France,” said Lestrade. “Just me, no kids or ex-wife, none of that. My cousin was at work most of the time, so I had a lot of time on my own to think things through and get my head around what had happened without work and all the rest of it getting in the way. By the time I came home, I'd got past the initial upset and was able to start thinking about the future.”

Interesting. John hadn't taken any time off work since Mary had announced that she was divorcing him. In fact, he'd started to spend 14.7 percent longer at work per week than had been the norm before. Sherlock thought he'd probably been avoiding thinking about the divorce at all, if the way he forced himself to sit through endless atrocious television in the evenings meant anything.

Sherlock knew from his own experiences that not thinking about things was not the best coping strategy. He had spent a year and a half not thinking about his growing attraction to John, which had only served to make him grumpy and short-tempered whenever he was reminded of it by one of John's mischievous grins or heartfelt compliments. Then he had jumped and been left with far too much free time to do nothing but think about how much he missed John, and in which ways. 

Facing the truth and then assimilating it into his mental self-image meant that he had been far better situated to cope when he came home to find John engaged. He'd already accepted that his feelings were never going to be returned, so he’d already anticipated the pain he felt when he watched John exchange vows with Mary. It didn't make it any easier to bear, but it did mean that he was able to control himself at the reception, before he went home to an empty flat and was able to wallow in his emotions without ruining John's big day.

If John was given time and space away from all the distractions of London, he would be able to work through his upset and, hopefully, start to get over Mary. And then he would cheer up and Sherlock would stop being reminded just how little John wanted to be back living with him.

The constable who had been contacting Transport for London came over and cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Got a result?” asked Lestrade.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “They looked up the details of his account, and apparently he took bike number 38234 at 5.37, from the stand closest to his work. He returned it to the stand here at 6.42.”

“Twenty minutes before the body was found,” said Lestrade.

“It doesn't take an hour to cycle that distance,” added Sherlock. “Even in rush hour traffic.” He strode off towards the cycle stand, pushing the problem of John to one side for the moment.

When he arrived home several hours later, all the lights were out. Hardly surprising given the hour, but he was still rather annoyed that he wouldn't be able to tell John all about the complexities of the case and the short but energetic chase that ended it. It was just the kind of case that John would have really enjoyed, before. Even when he'd been married, he'd still have come along and been there right to the end, grinning at Sherlock as Lestrade cuffed the murderer and no doubt already coming up with some awful bike-related pun for a blog title. He'd then have gone home to Mary, but at least Sherlock would have had his full attention before that.

Sherlock quietly climbed the stairs to stand outside the closed door of John's bedroom. He could hear John's breathing on the other side of it, slow and heavy with sleep. He put his hand on the door for a moment, contemplating walking in and waking him to tell him all about the case, but he knew there was no way he could actually do it. It was as much a dream as being able to walk in there and crawl into bed with John, curling up against his sleepy warmth and kissing him awake.

He stayed there for a minute longer, allowing the fantasy to grow in his mind, and then took his hand away and descended to his own room and his cold, empty bed.

****

Rather than sleeping as late as his body wanted to like he usually did the morning after a successfully resolved case, Sherlock set his alarm to wake him at the time when John would be eating breakfast and getting ready for work.

When he emerged from his room, John was sat at the kitchen table, staring into his tea as if it would provide the answers to the universe. He looked up with surprise at Sherlock's entrance.

“Oh, I didn't think you'd be up before lunch,” he said. “You did solve it, didn't you?”

“Of course,” said Sherlock, going to make tea for himself. “It was his work colleague. The Barclay's bike data was vital – it showed that another bike had been taken out and returned at the same times and places as his, and that it was one of his colleagues who had taken it. I took a quick look inside his workplace and was able to tell that the colleague who followed him is engaged in a fairly massive fraud against the business. The victim must have realised that and been contemplating turning him in.”

“You got access to the office in the middle of the night?” asked John.

Sherlock shrugged. “Not legally,” he said. “The police will have to go back with a search warrant, but that's Lestrade's problem. I have to leave him something to do, or he'll get bored.”

John snorted. “Right,” he said. “Did you also leave the arrest to him?”

“I allowed him to help,” said Sherlock. He wouldn't have if John had been with him, but these days he was too accustomed to having back-up to risk confronting murderers alone. “You’d have enjoyed that part – we had to chase him over a few rooftops.”

John grinned and for a split-second, he looked like the man he used to be. Their eyes locked and Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from grinning back, happiness welling up in his chest at the laughter lines crinkling up around John’s eyes.

It only lasted a moment. Something in John’s expression cracked and suddenly he was only wearing an imitation of a grin. 

“Oh yeah, nothing like risking your neck on a mad stunt to remind you why you should’ve had an early night.” He stood up and took his plate over to the sink. “Particularly if you're then going to be exhausted at work the next day.”

Sherlock scowled. When had John decided that being _sensible_ and _boring_ was a good idea? What had Mary done to drain the essence of him away like that?

“Speaking of,” continued John, “I told Drew that I'd stay behind and help out with some of the clinical governance paperwork tonight, so I won't be back until late.”

Why would John prefer to spend his free time on paperwork at the surgery rather than help Sherlock with a case? Sherlock felt his scowl deepen.

“Bring takeaway back with you,” he said. Having takeaway together always felt like a more companionable activity than other forms of eating together. For some reason that Sherlock had never accurately pinpointed, they tended to laugh eight percent more often over a takeaway than they did over other types of food. He suspected that was due to the intimate atmosphere created by sharing dishes, or possibly because takeaway foods were generally bad for you, which made it feel like an indulgence.

John shook his head. “I'll be eating there,” he said. “There's a lot of paperwork to get through – Drew's offered to pay for Chinese if we get it all done today.”

That was unacceptable. Why would John want to spend his entire evening, as well as the whole day, out of the flat? How was Sherlock meant to make him feel better if he never saw him?

John put on his jacket and picked up his wallet and keys. “Right, see you later, then.”

Sherlock was so lost in furious thought that John had given up on a response and was halfway out the door before Sherlock called a belated, “Goodbye,” after him.

_Useless,_ he thought. No wonder John was burying himself in his medical work instead of spending time with Sherlock. Drew probably managed to actually respond to those sorts of boring social niceties that John put stock in.

That wasn't right. Sherlock was meant to be John's best friend; Drew was just his boss. Sherlock should be able to help him through this, somehow. There had to be some way of cheering him up.

He thought again about what Lestrade had said the previous night. After some internal debate, he pulled out his mobile and sent a quick text.

_Need to discuss matter of importance. Will come to your office this afternoon. SH._

When his mobile beeped with an affirmative response, he abandoned his tea and went back to bed. There was no point in being sleep-deprived for the meeting – it was going to be painful enough as it was.

****

Sherlock loathed Mycroft's office, mostly because it was unsettlingly similar to Father's, which made him annoyed that he hadn't yet managed to conquer the emotional effect that reminders of Father had on him. That alone would have been enough to make him avoid the place even if it hadn't also contained Mycroft. That he was voluntarily going there now was more than enough to let Mycroft know the importance that Sherlock attached to the favour he was about to ask, which should hopefully work in his favour, but that didn't make walking through the door any more pleasant.

“Good afternoon, Sherlock,” said Mycroft from behind the ludicrously over-sized desk. He glanced Sherlock over. “I see that, as I expected, this 'matter of importance' is John Watson.”

“Obviously,” said Sherlock, throwing himself down into a chair. He didn’t have a case on, so what else could possibly be important?

Mycroft steepled his fingers. “I’ve heard that he's not adjusting to life as a divorcee particularly well. I do hope you're not about to ask me for some form of retribution against Mary.”

Sherlock snorted. “As if I'd need your help with that,” he said. He had toyed with the idea of making Mary's life miserable in a wide variety of ways, but it seemed a bit churlish when she had finally done the only thing Sherlock had ever wanted to her do by vanishing from John's life. Besides, if John found out that Sherlock was doing anything like that, he’d be furious.

“Then I’m not sure how you think I can help,” said Mycroft. “Consoling the broken-hearted is not really my forte.”

Sherlock thought of John's habitual sad-eyed expression and took a deep breath, gathering himself for the horrific task of asking Mycroft for a favour. “I want to take him to the Cornwall cottage.”

Mycroft blinked slowly and Sherlock realised with satisfaction that he'd managed to surprise him. That was almost worth the trip here alone.

“You hate the cottage,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock shrugged. “John would like it.”

Mycroft let out a gentle hum. “No doubt. I wonder what put the idea in your- Oh, of course. Detective Inspector Lestrade. He has indicated several times that he valued the holiday he took after his own divorce. The main thing he attaches importance to was his solitude, however. Are you sure it is best for you to go with John?”

“John doesn’t do well when he’s alone,” said Sherlock. “You know that. Besides, there's no way he'd go to a Holmes property without me with him.”

Mycroft nodded. “Ah, yes. His pride can be rather inflexible.”

Sherlock thought sourly that Mycroft was hardly in a position to comment on pride, but kept his mouth shut. He still needed him to agree, after all. “Well?” he prompted. “I can't imagine you're intending to use it.”

“God, no,” said Mycroft, making a face. Sherlock suppressed a smirk. One of the main reasons that he’d enjoyed country holidays as a child had been because of how much Mycroft had loathed them. All the fresh air and open spaces, and the expectation that they would go on long walks every day and get close to wildlife was essentially Mycroft's own personal Hell. The Cornwall cottage hadn't been ruined for Sherlock until much later.

“I rent it out as a holiday cottage now,” said Mycroft. “I should imagine there is a family booked in for next week, but I suppose I can always find them somewhere else to stay, if you feel it's important.”

Ah, here was the part where Sherlock had to pay. “It is,” he said. “I'll look into one of your exceptionally dull government cases in return.”

“Only one?” asked Mycroft. “It will cost me rather a lot of money to relocate the family, you know.”

Sherlock sighed. “Two,” he said. “That's as far as I'll go – you're not short of money.”

_And it should be as much mine as yours,_ he thought loudly enough for Mycroft to read it off his face. He didn't much care that he had been cut out of their father's Will, not when he had everything he needed and none of the hassle of trying to maintain a collection of crumbling properties, but he knew Mycroft thought it had been an injustice.

Mycroft pursed his lips and then nodded curtly. “Very well. Two cases, and the cottage will be available from Sunday. Is that everything?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock. He stood up, eager to get out of the place, but he found himself pausing. Had he missed some aspect of the interaction?

John's expectant face floated momentarily in front of his mind's eye. Oh yes, of course. “Thank you,” he said, rather stiffly.

Mycroft's eyebrows flew up. “Good lord, Sherlock, were those manners? Do try not to injure yourself.”

Sherlock sneered at him and left. Infuriating bastard.

****

The next stages of the plan were easy enough to put into place. Sherlock informed Mrs. Hudson that he and John were going to be away for a week. She clasped her hands together and told him how nice that would be.

“Don't mention it to John,” he said. “I haven't told him yet.”

“Oh, a surprise trip!” she exclaimed. “How lovely! That's so sweet of you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock couldn't remember ever having been described as sweet before. He wondered if Mrs. Hudson was starting to succumb to senile dementia.

He looked up trains to Cornwall, which was the sort of thing he usually left to John but which turned out to be easier than he'd expected, although also more expensive. Surely it would be cheaper to just charter a plane to fly them down there?

A quick Google search revealed that the answer to that was 'no'. He scowled at the internet and booked the train tickets. He also arranged a hire car for when they arrived and then sat back in his chair, wondering why a holiday had to be so complicated.

John arrived home very late and went straight to collapse into his chair. “Whichever bastard invented clinical governance paperwork deserves to be shot.”

Sherlock regarded him carefully. All eight of the signs that John required a cup of tea were present, and yet he had not headed to the kettle. Ah, but five out of six signs that he was mentally and physically exhausted were also present. That explained it.

Sherlock put his laptop to one side, first taking care to minimise the window showing _Fun Things To Do in Cornwall!_ , none of which had struck Sherlock as being any fun at all.

“Would you like tea?” he asked.

John gave him a disbelieving stare, but nodded. “Please.”

Sherlock stood and headed for the kitchen. Tea was one of the more traditional ways of showing support for a friend in distress and one he could manage easily enough.

“I must look really shit for you to offer,” said John. His voice sounded lighter than it had and Sherlock congratulated himself on improving his mood, at least for the present.

“I am capable of making tea,” he pointed out. “I have made it for you several times before.”

“Yeah, but probably only about once every three months,” said John. “Mind you, it does mean I'm well-trained. When I first moved in with Mary, she told me how lovely it was that I always made the tea without expecting her to do it.”

His voice had been light as he'd said that, but when Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to gauge his expression, it had fallen into grief-stricken lines. He scowled at the mugs as he got them out. It had only taken one mention of Mary to destroy all of Sherlock’s progress. Not acceptable.

****

He waited until the next day before phoning Drew.

“This is Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “I require a favour.”

“Ah,” said Drew, knowingly. “John warned me about this. No, you can't borrow any of our equipment or supplies.”

Sherlock huffed a sigh. “I have plenty of access to such things, thank you,” he said. “This is about John.”

“What about him?” asked Drew suspiciously. “Oh god, he hinted at this as well. No, I'm not firing him so that he's constantly available for your cases.”

“Oh for- Ignore everything he might have said,” snapped Sherlock. “I am phoning about his well-being. You must have noticed that he is currently experiencing a number of emotional difficulties.”

Drew was silent. “Yes,” he admitted. “But that's to be expected.”

“To this extent?” asked Sherlock.

“Well, no, he is taking it hard,” agreed Drew, and Sherlock let out a sigh of relief. Finally, a bit of sense from the man. “I hope you're not about to ask me to start slipping him anti-depressants or something.”

Not a bad idea, but possibly a bit drastic. Sherlock would save that as a last resort. “No,” he said. “I need you to give him next week off. I intend to take him on holiday.”

There was a long pause. “Holiday?” repeated Drew.

Sherlock wondered how the man was able to run a surgery when he was incapable of understanding a simple statement. “Yes, holiday,” he snapped back. “A trip away, a break from it all, a vacation, a-”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” interrupted Drew. “You sure that's a good idea?”

“Why wouldn't it be?” asked Sherlock. As he said it, he meant it rhetorically, but a moment later he wanted to an actual answer. Was there a reason that this was a bad idea? Mrs. Hudson had seemed supportive about it, but perhaps there was some factor that both she and Sherlock had overlooked.

“No, it probably is,” said Drew. “God knows he spends far too much time here. A break could be what he needs.”

Only 'could be'. “You appear to have reservations,” said Sherlock. “I would appreciate it if you expressed them.”

Drew was silent for a long moment. “No, it's fine,” he said. “It's a good idea, actually. I'll get someone in to cover him. Just a week, yeah?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, now thoroughly irritated. Why wouldn't he just say whatever it was?

“Okay then, well, have fun,” said Drew.

“Unlikely,” said Sherlock, and hung up without bothering to say goodbye. What an incredibly annoying man. How could John stand to work with him?

****

Sherlock intended to inform John of his plan on Friday evening, over a takeaway and before watching one of the many, terrible films that John seemed to think it essential for Sherlock to have suffered through.

The first stage was successful. They got takeaway, and Sherlock started to tell John about a case he’d solved a few days ago, taking care to exaggerate what John would consider the interesting parts as well as how brilliant he had been. He used the various takeaway containers and his chopsticks to demonstrate how the criminal had attempted to escape down a drainpipe and Sherlock had stopped him using only Lestrade’s shoe (represented by a fortune cookie).

John seemed entirely engrossed in the story, making little comments about how clever Sherlock was and how angry Lestrade must have been, right up until Sherlock threw in an off-hand comment about how much better it would have been if John had been there, because his shoe would have been more aerodynamic than Lestrade’s.

John let out a half-laugh at that. “That sounds like just the kind of vital role I usually play in our cases,” he said, and he sounded cheerful as he said it, but after that his enthusiasm for Sherlock’s story waned, until he was spending more time staring at his food than Sherlock.

His eating slowed to a stop and while Sherlock was describing Lestrade’s reaction when Anderson insisted on bagging up his shoe as evidence, John set his fork down. He taken a long, ragged breath and said, “Think I'm done eating. Going to have a shower.”

“What about the film?” asked Sherlock.

John just shook his head. “Maybe another time.”

He slipped away without another word, leaving Sherlock to clear up the remains of their meal and try to work out exactly where he had gone wrong with that story.

John spent a very long time in the shower. When he came out, he collected his book from beside his chair and went straight up to bed without more than a tight smile at Sherlock. He was only wearing his bathrobe and Sherlock had to fight not to stare too obviously at the drops of water resting on the skin at the base of his throat.

The image stayed with him, ruining his concentration until he was forced to put the journal he was trying to read aside in favour of his violin. He played Mendelssohn with his eyes shut, imagining what it would be like to trace the line of those drops of water with his mouth. It was several hours before he had collected himself enough to go to bed.

The next morning, he rose when he heard John moving about in the kitchen and came out to sit at the table. He picked up the cup of tea John had made for himself, took a sip and then made a face. No sugar – how could John stomach it like that? He pulled the sugar bowl towards himself and John let out a sigh.

“I'll make myself another cup, shall I?” he said, which seemed rather redundant to Sherlock. He'd been about to offer Sherlock one anyway. What did it matter which mug either of them drank out of?

John also made Sherlock a couple of slices of toast, which he set in front of him with the glare that meant he'd be put out if Sherlock ignored them. Sherlock was relieved to see it – a glaring John wasn't one that was going to go and hide in his room and pine over Mary. Besides, he'd been intending to eat anyway. He had a week without a case ahead of him so it wasn't as if he was going to need his brain.

“I'm going shopping later,” said John as he sat down with his fresh cup of tea. “Is there anything you want me to get?”

“Don't bother,” said Sherlock. “We're not going to be here to eat anything. You'd do better to spend the time packing.”

“Packing?” repeated John. “But I'm not-”

“We're going to Cornwall,” interrupted Sherlock.

“What?” said John, putting his tea down and staring at Sherlock. “No, _we're_ not.”

“Yes, we are,” said Sherlock. “We're leaving rather early tomorrow morning, so I suggest you pack today.”

“Is there a case?” asked John, and then half-shook his head. “No, don't tell me, of course there is. That doesn't mean I'm going, Sherlock – I've got work on Monday.”

“No, you haven't,” corrected Sherlock. “I've spoken to Drew on your behalf. You have the week off.” He gave John a pleased smile and waited for his pleasure at the idea of a holiday.

It didn't come. John stared at him for a minute or two, and then let out a groan and put his head in his hands. “God, Sherlock, you can't do that. My job is important to me, I can't just drop it for a week because you have a case.”

“It's not for a case,” said Sherlock. “It's a holiday.”

“A holiday?” said John incredulously. “You hate the very idea of holidays.”

“Only in principle,” said Sherlock.

That did not clear the shocked look of John's face. Sherlock frowned. He'd thought this would be easier.

“You will enjoy it,” he said. “The cottage is located in a remote area next to the sea, where it is possible to stroll along a beach and walk across a moor. You enjoy getting to spend a limited amount of time in the countryside, although you tend to get bored after more than a week.”

“Yeah,” said John. “That's true. I'm just wondering what the catch is.”

“Why should there be a catch?” asked Sherlock.

John let out a disbelieving laugh. “Sherlock, have you met yourself? There's _always_ a catch. Has there been a murder? Or do you need a lot of space to conduct some horrifically dangerous experiment in? Or have you pissed someone off so badly that you need to escape London for a bit to prevent yourself from being murdered?”

Sherlock wasn't sure if he was annoyed that John didn't trust him, or pleased that John knew him well enough to know that he usually had several motives for his actions.

“None of the above,” he said. He hesitated. Would John perceive his motives as pity or be touched by the concern? Sometimes he was prickly about people trying to help him. If Sherlock didn't provide some explanation though, he'd be looking for a trap the whole time they were away, and that wouldn't provide him with any relaxation.

“It was indicated to me that some time away can be helpful at times of emotional upheaval,” he said carefully.

John's mouth flattened into a line. His eyes darted down to his plate as he considered that and then he gave a little nod. “Right,” he said. “And you didn't think to ask me if I wanted a holiday, rather than just springing one on me?”

“You like surprises,” Sherlock pointed out. Which was a very good thing, given how unpredictable things could be around Sherlock.

John managed a rueful smile at that. “Yeah, that's true,” he said quietly. He looked up from his plate and met Sherlock's eyes again. “Okay, fine. A week in Cornwall, then? Absolutely no crimes or experiments or anything that will make me regret it?”

“Absolutely not,” said Sherlock, but then hesitated. That was a rather broad-reaching promise, after all. “Well, no crimes that I have foreseen, and no experiments that will be unduly intrusive, and I will do my best to make sure you will not regret it.”

John gave him a long look, leaning forward slightly as his eyes darted from one of Sherlock’s to the other. It was strangely intimate and Sherlock had to fight the urge to copy John’s lean in. _It means nothing,_ he told himself. _He is merely attempting to gauge my motivations._ He put on his most sincere expression.

John leant back and gave a little shake of his head. “Right, okay. Fine. I suppose I'll skip shopping for packing. Where exactly are we going?”

Sherlock beamed at him. “A cottage near the village of Tredannick Wollas,” he said. “Don't worry, I have arranged all our transport.”

“Oh god,” said John. “Please tell me you haven't invented some terrifying new form of transport that involves having your molecules rearranged.”

“We're going by train,” said Sherlock.

“Thank God,” said John. He gave Sherlock a smile that was more restrained than it would have been before the divorce, but that was still a smile. Sherlock returned it, pleased that his plan was already having positive effects.

****

It was only when he went to do his own packing that he realised a potential problem. He was self-aware enough to know that the last thing anyone needed on a holiday, particularly one aimed at resolving emotional difficulties, was to spend it with Sherlock when he was bored.

To this end, he made a pile of things on the bed that would keep him occupied, at least for a brief time. He included books on a variety of subjects, in case he became bored with one and wished to study another instead; some of his most basic chemistry equipment so that he could run a handful of experiments if he felt the urge; a stack of forensic articles that he'd been meaning to go through with a red pen and then return to their authors; his violin and a stack of sheet music, as well as some blank sheets in case he felt like composing; and his laptop.

The mound covered his bed entirely and he hadn't even got as far as clothes yet. He considered the size of his bag and then wondered if John would have any space left over in his. Even if he did, it was unlikely Sherlock was going to be able to take even a tenth of the pile.

“Hey, do you know if there's a DVD player at this place?” said John, coming into Sherlock's room without bothering to knock. “I thought we could take- Oh.” He'd seen the pile.

“I imagine there is, although there wasn't last time I was there,” replied Sherlock. “Mycroft hires it out; people expect modern accoutrements in holiday cottages these days, don't they?”

John ignored his response. “Are you taking all of that?”

Sherlock looked at the pile again. Perhaps he wouldn't need that many beakers. “I was working on cutting it down,” he said.

“Sherlock, are we going for a week or a year?”

“Just a week,” said Sherlock. “I don't want to get bored.”

John stared at the bed. “I can see that,” he said. “If you're that worried about it, why did you suggest this in the first place?”

_For you,_ thought Sherlock. That must be obvious; a worrying amount of his behaviour could be traced to that motivation.

“It'll be fine,” he said. “I just don't want to need something and not have it.”

“And now I know you haven't been on holiday recently,” said John. “There's always a point where you want something from home and don't have it. You just make do without. It's only a week, after all.”

A whole week. Sherlock tried to imagine a week without any stimulation and shuddered.

“And besides,” added John, “you're on holiday. You find other things to do – things you wouldn't have time for at home. Long walks, investigating the local area, just sitting down and relaxing with a book.”

“I've included books,” said Sherlock, gesturing to the top half of the bed.

“Sherlock, you've included your entire library,” said John. “There's no way you'll have time for all of those. Cut it down to five.”

“Five!” exclaimed Sherlock. “Don't be ridiculous, John, that's far too-”

“Five,” said John in the firm voice that meant he was drawing a line he would not be pushed over. “And you won't need any of this – I'm not spending the week wondering if I'm about to be blown up.” He gestured at the stack of chemical equipment.

“What if I find something in the local area that I want to examine?” asked Sherlock.

“You can bring a sample home and do it after the holiday,” said John. “Seriously, Sherlock, there's no way you're going to get all this equipment on the train without breaking half of it anyway.”

It was possible he had a point. Sherlock sighed. “I'll cut it down to my small microscope and some slides,” he said.

John opened his mouth as if to argue and then just shook his head. “Okay, fine. Christ, don't expect me to carry your bag though, I'd end up doing my back in.” He stepped closer to the bed, squinting at the pile of periodicals. “You're not going to get through all of these,” he said. “Cut it down by three quarters.”

Sherlock made a face. “If I get bored, you're going to be the one who suffers,” he pointed out.

“We'll both suffer,” corrected John. “Seriously, Sherlock, if you're that worried about it, we don't have to go anywhere.”

Unacceptable. “I'm not worried,” lied Sherlock. “I am merely being prepared. It will be fine.”

“Right,” said John. “Well, be less prepared so that we don't need to hire a team of Sherpas to get your luggage there, okay?” He turned back towards the door to leave, then stopped and glanced back. “Bring your violin, though. It'd be good to have some music in the evenings.”

He gave Sherlock a small, contented smile that Sherlock wanted to fold up inside his chest, and then left.

Sherlock took a breath to push down the rush of emotion and contemplated the violin. Of course, he shouldn't be packing to keep himself entertained, he should be packing to keep _John_ entertained. This holiday was for his benefit, after all. Sherlock already had a project that would keep him occupied for the entire week: making sure that John had a good time and was able to start moving on from the hurt Mary had caused him. He contemplated the stacks on his bed again. He was going to need completely different things for that.

****

It took Sherlock rather longer than John to pack but he did manage it, ending up with only two bags and his violin case. John eyed the stack next to his duffle bag with an amused look, but didn't verbalise any of his thoughts.

Sherlock took a moment to make a mental note of John's current emotional state so that he could use it as a control on how well the holiday was going. John had shown more emotion in his interaction with Sherlock earlier than had become normal for him, which had to be a good sign, even if the emotions themselves had generally been negative ones. But then, exasperation and minor annoyance had always made up a large percentage of John's responses to Sherlock.

Mycroft texted while they were in the taxi to Paddington. _Mrs. Tregennis has the keys and she's expecting you. Do try not to destroy the place._

Sherlock blinked. He hadn't expected Mrs. Tregennis to still be in Mycroft's employ, although he probably should have. Mycroft always made sure to offer enough incentives to inspire loyalty in his employees and Mrs. Tregennis had been helping out with the cottage since Sherlock was a boy. He couldn't help but remember the state he had been in last time he saw her and he felt his teeth grind together. Hopefully she would know better than to make reference to that. There were going to be enough reminders this week without her adding to them with verbal acknowledgement.

John spent most of the trip in the distracted silence that had become his most common state. Sherlock watched him staring blankly out of the window of the train and made a mental spreadsheet of the activities that were available to them, comparing how likely they were to make John happy, how likely they were to provide him with an opportunity for introspection, and how likely they were to drive Sherlock insane.

They were halfway through Devon when John finally spoke. Whatever thought process he'd been following caused him to frown fractionally and then glance over at Sherlock, who immediately pretended he hadn't been observing the reflection of John's expression in the window for the last 150 miles.

“Hang on, did you say yesterday that Mycroft owns this cottage?” asked John.

He was thinking ahead to the holiday then, rather than backwards to Mary. That was good. “Yes,” said Sherlock. “Congratulations on only taking a day to comprehend a conversation.”

John ignored the insult. “You're voluntarily going to stay somewhere owned by Mycroft?” he asked incredulously. His eyebrows raised as a thought occurred to him. “Oh god, you're not planning to do something to it, are you?”

Sherlock huffed an insulted breath. “Why does everyone think I have dark designs on a cottage? If I wanted to upset Mycroft, there are far better ways to do it.”

“Right,” said John, uncertainly. “So, what, he's just doing you a favour? And you're accepting it? Sorry, but I know you two too well to believe that.”

Sherlock sighed. “It used to belong to our parents,” he said. “We spent the occasional summer there when we were younger. The photo of us in my bedroom was taken on the beach near it.”

“Oh,” said John. “So it's yours as well?”

Sherlock hesitated. “Not legally,” he said. He didn't think that getting into the details of why he hadn't inherited anything from their parents while Mycroft had ended up with what John would consider a small fortune would be conducive to the relaxed mood he was hoping to promote. “But it's not a problem for me to use it. I have before.”

“Ah, okay,” said John. He went quiet again, turning back to the landscape passing them by. It wasn't until they were getting off the train that Sherlock realised he'd assumed that Sherlock had used it while pretending to be dead. It was a logical assumption, he supposed, but the truth was that although he'd considered it, he hadn't been able to bring himself to go there even when he had precious few other places that he could go to.

He let a long breath out through his nose and concentrated on finding their rental car. It was ridiculous to still be so emotionally affected by a building just because of an unpleasant memory that was now years old. Besides which, this week was about ameliorating John's emotional condition. Sherlock's past was irrelevant to the situation.

****

Sherlock drove them to Tredannick Wollas while John continued his silent contemplation out the window, although he did manage one or two remarks about the aesthetic appeal of the landscape that Sherlock didn't bother replying to.

Mrs Tregennis's house was in the centre of Tredannick Wollas, if a village so small could be said to have a centre. John perked up when they stopped outside it, glancing around with interest.

“Just got to get the keys to the cottage,” explained Sherlock, and got out of the car.

John didn't bother following him. That was annoying as a symptom of his ongoing lack of curiosity but a relief in that it meant Mrs. Tregennis wouldn't have a chance to interrogate him or, worse, spill some of Sherlock's secrets.

Mrs. Tregennis gave him a bright smile when she opened the door.

“Sherlock!” she said. “Oh, you're looking so well. I am pleased.”

“Thank you,” said Sherlock tersely. The last thing he needed was to be reminded of how he had looked when she'd last seen him. “It has been a while.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I've been reading about you in the papers. I'm so pleased you've got everything together now.”

Sherlock gave a quick nod. “Yes,” he said. “Do you have the cottage keys? Sorry, it's been a long journey and John’s tired.”

“Oh yes, of course,” she said. She ducked to look in the car window at John and gave him a little wave that John, looking confused, returned. “I got a bit of shopping in for you – not much, but I thought you wouldn't want to have to bother finding a shop after your journey. I'm sure I'll see you during the week,” she said. “There's such a lot I want to catch up on!”

Sherlock couldn't imagine anything he wanted less, but he plastered on a smile and managed a friendly good-bye once she'd handed over the keys.

Back in the car, John gave him an enquiring look.

“Mrs. Tregennis has always looked after the cottage for the family,” Sherlock explained.

“Ah,” said John. “One day you'll have to explain to me why little old ladies always adore you.”

“They don't,” said Sherlock. He wasn't sure anyone could ever have been described as 'adoring' him.

“Mrs. Hudson,” said John as if that ended the argument.

“I ensured her abusive husband was executed,” Sherlock reminded him. “And Mrs. Tregennis has known me since I was a child. That tends to prompt some measure of affection in women of a certain age. Besides which, she treats almost everyone in the village like that.”

“Of course,” said John, sounding amused. Sherlock didn't bother arguing any further. As long as John was teasing him, he wasn't thinking about Mary.

It wasn't much further to the cottage, although the road was bad enough to necessitate a much slower speed than Sherlock really had the patience for. John spent it with his face pressed to the window, staring out across the bay.

“It's beautiful,” he said.

Sherlock spared it a glance. The cottage was on the eastern headland of the bay, which curved around like a horseshoe between steep cliffs. The view across it took in the sunlight glinting off the sea, the narrow strip of pebbled beach below the cliffs, and the handful of fishing boats tied up in Tredannick Wollas harbour. He supposed it was attractive, if you were interested in that sort of thing.

“There's the cottage,” he said as the road rounded a bend and it came into view. It was square and built of grey stone, nestled in amongst a handful of stunted trees in a dip at the edge of the moor that rose in a gentle slope to their left.

It looked much the same as it had the last time he'd seen it, when he'd driven away vowing never to come back. Mycroft had had the front door painted at some point and the garden was better cared for than Sherlock remembered – probably the work of Mrs. Tregennis or one of her many relatives.

“Looks nice,” said John.

Sherlock didn't bother responding. He drew into the drive and parked the car, and then stared at the cottage for a long moment, unpleasant tingles creeping down his spine. This was ridiculous; it was just a building. Nothing that had happened here before had anything to do with this visit.

He made himself get out of the car and get his bags out of the boot. The lock on the front door had been changed, which Sherlock didn't find surprising, given how stiff the old one had been. Inside, he saw that the entire interior had been redone into the sort of bland faux-hominess that rental properties everywhere sported. The large portrait of Grandfather over the fireplace in the sitting room had been replaced with a sentimentally-rendered watercolour of the bay, and the chair that Mummy had always sat in while working through her stack of holiday novels had been replaced with a sofa that matched the curtains. Sherlock found himself searching the mantelpiece for the chip where he'd once hit it with the poker just to prove that his childhood memories of this place had truly occurred. When he found it, an inexplicable feeling of relief settled over him.

“Look, there's plenty of books, in case you run out,” said John, nodding at the bookshelf that contained four shelves of Clive Cussler and Marian Keyes, and a stack of board games and puzzles.

“I can use them for an experiment on how swiftly a cigarette burns through paper,” said Sherlock as if agreeing.

John snorted. “Christ, Sherlock, you said you weren’t going to destroy the building.”

“I’m not,” said Sherlock, starting up the stairs. “Plenty of space outdoors to burn a few books.”

“If you used to come here as a child, it's a wonder this place is still standing at all,” said John.

Sherlock decided not to mention the fate of the garden shed.

“Which one was your room, then?” asked John once they'd reached the landing. There was a vase of chrysanthemums on a tiny table in the alcove where Mycroft had once thrown Sherlock's book out of the window when he refused to come down to dinner until he'd finished it.

“This one,” said Sherlock, pushing open the door to the right of the bathroom.

The whole room had been redone and now featured a pair of bunkbeds where Sherlock's desk used to be. Mycroft had no doubt found it amusing to turn Sherlock's bedroom into the one most obviously meant for children.

“You taking top or bottom?” asked John.

Sherlock had a strange moment of deja vu before he remembered when he had last been asked that question. It had been under such different circumstances that it had taken his mind a moment or two to place it. He wasted a moment in imagining that John meant it in the same way that Victor had meant it and then forced his mind back into reality.

“Neither,” he said, letting the door shut again.

“Let's have a look at the others,” said John. He pushed the door open to the master bedroom, the one that had been Sherlock's parents.

“Oh, this is nice,” he said, going inside.

“There's an en-suite,” Sherlock pointed out. “You'll want that one.” He didn't follow John in. He could barely bring his feet to take two steps closer so that he could see inside.

It had been completely redecorated as well, so that there was barely anything left of the room Sherlock had spent so many miserable hours in. Even the cracks and marks on the ceiling had changed – Mycroft had probably had to have the whole thing replastered, given the damage Sherlock had done to it when he decided the cracks were all laughing at him.

“Are you sure you don't want it?” asked John. “The bed's a double.”

“Very sure,” said Sherlock. He turned to investigate what Mycroft had done to the other two bedrooms to find a double bed in what had been the spare room, and two singles in what had been Mycroft's. He'd take the spare room then. That would be adequate – he had very few memories of it, either good or bad.

“Let me guess,” said John, standing in the doorway as Sherlock put his bag on the bed and glanced at the pictures to find another local view and a couple of drawings of flowers. Dull. “Next door was Mycroft's, so this must have been the spare room.”

Sherlock glanced up at him with surprise. “Lucky guess.”

John put on a haughty expression. “I never guess,” he said in a voice that it took Sherlock several seconds to realise was meant to be an impression of him.

He glared at John but he couldn't help feeling pleased. John was starting to tease him properly again, like he’d used to. Sherlock hadn't realised how much he'd missed it.

John responded to his glare with a grin. “Mycroft’s is the one furthest from your bedroom,” he pointed out. “If I were your parents, I'd have kept the two of you as far away from each other as possible.”

Sherlock laughed and all the weight that had settled over his shoulders as he'd walked back into the cottage disappeared. “Excellent deduction.”

He wasn't the man he'd been the last time he was here and he wasn't alone like he had been then. It was time to move on from the past and concentrate on improving John's emotional state. What was the next step towards that?

Oh, of course. Obvious.

“Come on,” he said. “Let's go and see whether Mrs. Tregennis has provided us with tea.”

****

The first few days of the holiday went better than Sherlock had been expecting. John was quiet, but not as quiet as he had been in London, and it was far easier to pull him out of his reveries and get him to engage with Sherlock.

Sherlock's mission to keep John entertained was coming along well. John seemed remarkably easily pleased by simple activities like walking on the moor behind the cottage while Sherlock shared all that he could remember of his childhood studies into the people who had left behind the ruins scattered over it, or sitting quietly with a book in the evenings while Sherlock ran through the various tunes that he knew John liked best on his violin.

Sherlock attempted to get John to go on at least one walk on his own so that he could experience some solitude and have time to sort through his emotions in the way that Lestrade held to be so important, but John didn't fall in line with that plan.

“I'm not leaving you here to mope about wishing you were in London,” he said, when Sherlock told him he was going to stay in the cottage while John visited St. Austell. “I know what happens when you're bored, and I like my possessions, thank you.”

Sherlock gave in. Perhaps he'd have found it easier to remain firm if he didn't want to spend as much time with John as he could, even if it meant wandering around a small town and trying to find something of interest about it. He'd spent so long only seeing John in the spaces between his surgery hours and the time he was with Mary that being with him almost constantly now felt like a gift.

On Wednesday, they drove into Tredannick Wollas to top up the food supplies that Mrs. Tregennis had left them. John became rather enthusiastic about buying things from the local shops, although Sherlock pointed out it was far more efficient, and likely cheaper, to just drive to the nearest supermarket.

“We need to support the local economy,” said John, and insisted on having long conversations in the butcher's, the greengrocer's and the fishmonger's about the best local products. Sherlock just hung back and glowered at the shop assistants whenever they lied too obviously about how local their goods were. _He's engaging with people,_ he told himself. _He’s showing interest in the details of life again. This is a good thing._

John needed other people in a way that Sherlock never had. He sometimes thought he'd be perfectly happy to only ever see and talk to John, if he could manage that and yet still have his cases. John, on the other hand, liked to talk to people: small talk with casual acquaintances, nights at the pub with Stamford or Lestrade, tea and daytime telly with Mrs. Hudson. He'd done very few of those things since the divorce, though. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time John had spent an evening outside the flat.

_I'll have to get Lestrade to invite him to the pub when we get back,_ he thought. Two divorced men and beer – there was bound to be some measure of sympathetic understanding and catharsis there.

They made it to the bakery, which Sherlock very much hoped was their last stop, and ran into Mrs, Tregennis, accompanied by a young man.

“Sherlock!” she exclaimed with pleasure when she saw them. “Hello! And Doctor Watson too. I hope you're enjoying Tredannick Wollas.”

“It's very beautiful,” said John.

Mrs. Tregennis beamed. “Of course it is. Oh, do you remember Jieshi, Sherlock? He'd have been living here the last few times your family came for a holiday. He's lodging with me now.”

Sherlock hadn't wasted any time on the locals when he'd come here as a boy, particularly not those who would have been ten years younger than him. Luckily, Mrs. Tregennis didn't wait for a response.

“This is Sherlock Holmes, and his friend John Watson. They're staying in the Holmes cottage for a week. You know, up on the headland.”

“The famous Sherlock Holmes?” asked Jieshi.

Sherlock kept the wince off his face. He hadn't become a detective to get famous and yet somehow that was what had happened. It was rather annoying. “I suspect the only Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “Good to meet you, Jieshi.”

Jieshi made a face as he shook hands with Sherlock. “Oh, call me Jay. It’s much easier. Only people who’ve known me since I was a child bother with my Chinese name now.”

Sherlock regarded him rather carefully as John shook hands with him as well. Jay had definitely grown up locally, but he'd been somewhere else for a few years since. Probably university, given the state of his hands. He'd been away long enough to be studying at a post-graduate level, unless he'd taken an abnormally long time to complete his bachelors. He also played an unreasonable amount of golf and was fond of very strong mints. None of that was likely to turn out to be important, but Sherlock memorised it all anyway, in case he could use it to impress John at a later date.

“Jieshi is doing research on the ruins on the moor,” said Mrs. Tregennis. “He's doing a doctorate.” She sounded just as proud as if Jay were somehow related to her.

“You should talk to Sherlock,” said John. “He knows rather a lot about them.”

“Oh?” asked Jay. “Is archaeology a hobby of yours, then?”

“No,” said Sherlock. “I had a different range of interests when I was younger, though. I did a basic study on the construction methods and architectural style, and what that tells us about the influences on the people who lived there. As I remember, the conclusion was a comment on the importance of Phoenician traders.”

“Really?” said Jay. “I've been coming to similar conclusions. I wonder if I could take a look at your study.”

“I really was only a child when I completed it,” said Sherlock. The last thing he wanted was to be judged on the academic standards he'd had when he was thirteen. “I'm not even sure where it is now. It's possible it's been thrown away.”

“I'm sure it hasn't,” said Mrs. Tregennis. “Mycroft got them to put everything in the attic, boxes and boxes of bits and pieces. It's bound to be up there. I tell you what, you look it out, and then bring it over to have dinner with us tomorrow night, how about that?”

“That's very kind of you, Mrs. Tregennis,” said John.

“Oh please, call me Brenda. And it's for my benefit, really. I want to hear all about everything you've been up to, Sherlock. You're so famous now!”

Sherlock hesitated, but he'd just been thinking that John needed more social contact than Sherlock on his own could provide for him. It would be churlish to turn down this opportunity to give John some human interaction with people other than himself just because the idea made him want to run off a cliff. _This holiday is for John,_ he reminded himself.

“Thank you,” he said. “That's very kind. What time shall we come over?”

“Seven will be fine,” she said, gave him a beaming smile, and left. Jay gave them a polite nod goodbye and trotted after her.

Sherlock let out a long sigh once she was out of earshot.

John nudged his shoulder with his own and gave him a little smile that said he knew what Sherlock was thinking. “Might not be that bad,” he said. “You can get nerdy about prehistoric settlements with Jay.”

Sherlock scowled at him. “I am never nerdy.”

John started laughing, and didn't stop even when Sherlock turned his back on him and started to stride away. _Nerdy_ , honestly.

****

After dinner that evening, Sherlock sat on the sofa with a journal, and John pulled one of the truly terrible spy novels off the shelf and settled down next to him.

They sat in comfortable silence for several hours. Before he'd fallen in love with John, Sherlock hadn't had any idea just how pleasurable it could be to relax in another's company. Somehow, no matter what he was doing, just having John in the same room made it far more enjoyable. He didn't yet have enough data to work out by what factor, or what might cause it. A large part of him was just content to enjoy the phenomenon without questioning it, which was largely unheard of for him.

After an hour or two, he allowed himself the indulgence of curling his feet up onto the sofa, putting his knees close enough to John to press against his thigh. John gave him a look that Sherlock pretended not to see, but didn’t move away. Sherlock restrained his smile and continued his reading while enjoying the sensation of John’s body touching his. 

“Bedtime, I think,” said John, setting his book aside a bit later. “What's the plan for tomorrow?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don't know. What more does one do on holiday?”

“More of the same, really,” said John. “Is there anywhere else interesting in the area? Coastal walks or anything?”

Sherlock did his best to remember the websites he'd looked at. “I think there's a walk along the cliffs a few miles east.”

“That’d be nice,” said John. “We could take a picnic.”

The awful thing was that it actually did sound nice, if John was going to be there. Not for the first time, Sherlock wondered if love shouldn't be categorised as a form of insanity.

That said, he was meant to be giving John time alone to think. He’d never find time to get over his divorce if Sherlock was always around him. “Can't imagine I'd enjoy it,” he said. “You go. I want to get on with a few experiments.”

“Oh, okay,” said John, looking disappointed. Sherlock hardened himself not to give in and agree to go anyway.

“Wait,” said John, giving him a narrow-eyed look. “You're not planning to blow anything up while I'm not here, are you?”

Yet more panic about whether or not he was plotting destruction. Sherlock huffed out a sigh. “I assure you, John, that I will save all the dangerous experiments for when you are here.”

John rolled his eyes. “You're meant to say you're not going to do any at all.”

Sherlock made a face. “Where would be the fun in that?”

“Absolute madman,” said John, but his voice was fond. He gave Sherlock’s knee two quick pats, then stood up and headed to his room. Sherlock stayed where he was for a while longer, his knee tingling from John’s touch. _Pathetic_ , he thought, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

****

The whole holiday thing was a lot duller without John around. Sherlock spent most of the next day making a mess in the kitchen and wishing John was there to complain about it. When John finally came home, it was all Sherlock could do not to grab hold of him and make him promise not to wander off and leave Sherlock to the intense boredom of being trapped in the middle of nowhere alone again.

“Have fun?” he asked instead, trying to sound casual.

“Yeah,” said John, but he sounded quiet rather than happy. Did that mean he'd managed some of the introspection that was the point of all this? Sherlock hoped so. “Well, until it started raining, anyway. Going to have a shower, and then we should head to Mrs. Tregennis's.”

Sherlock hadn't noticed any rain. He glanced out the window and was surprised to see grey clouds covering the sky. That would explain why he was cold. 

He glanced at his watch and then nodded. “I'll wrap this up,” he said, glancing at the mess of crockery that he had cobbled together into a make-shift chemistry set in the absence of the equipment John had made him leave in London. There was no need to pack it all away, surely? He'd need some of it again for his follow-up experiments. Easier if he just left it out. They wouldn't need the kitchen table much anyway; they could just eat off their knees in the sitting room.

When John came back down, he took one look at the kitchen and groaned. “I should have known that having a tidy kitchen was never going to last.”

He sounded more resigned than upset so Sherlock just ignored the statement. 

Mrs. Tregennis served them some excellent fish pie that made the need to engage in small talk with her and Jay almost worthwhile. Sherlock turned the conversation to Jay's research so that there was at least something of interest to concentrate on, and was pleasantly surprised to find that Jay had enough intelligence to be interesting on the subject. John took care of keeping Mrs. Tregennis entertained by letting her talk endlessly about her grandchildren so that when they left, everyone was able to pretend they'd had a good time. As far as Sherlock could tell, the other three actually had, although John was quiet on the way home. Perhaps it had been too much social interaction in one go.

When they got back to the cottage, Sherlock pulled out his violin and played to John for a while. John settled back with a look of pleasure and watched with an eager look that Sherlock couldn't help wishing was directed at him rather than Mendelssohn. When it turned wistful and introspective, Sherlock had to shut his eyes to block out the inconvenient rush of affection and desire.

Knowing that John intended to go to sleep as soon as Sherlock had finished playing, he ended his concert with Brahms Lullaby. A little more childish than Sherlock usually liked his music, but he did enjoy the idea that he was lulling John to sleep. 

_Who knew love would come with such obvious caretaker tendencies?_ he thought as he let the final note linger.

“Lovely,” said John. He gave Sherlock a soft smile but Sherlock could see sadness around the edges of it. Clearly, he had somehow been reminded of Mary by the music, which had not been Sherlock's intention at all. He turned away to put his violin away, wondering why that woman had to ruin everything.

“Right, going to bed then,” said John, standing up. “See you in the morning.”

“Good night,” said Sherlock without turning around.

John left and he let out a long breath, closing his eyes as a rush of emotional distress washed over him.

_I should be used to this,_ he told himself. _The situation has been in place for years. It should have ceased to hurt me._

His emotions refused to be over-ruled by logic. He went up to his bedroom but was unable to sleep amongst the bland furnishings. Instead, he found himself hounded by the many memories he had that took place in this cottage, the good as well as the bad. It had been a long time since he'd allowed himself to remember how Mummy had unwound when she was away from the city, spending less time fussing over how dirty he was or how likely he was to injure himself and more time listening to him talking about his experiments. Those were some of his favourite memories of her.

The sun came up without him having slept a wink, but he was perfectly capable of functioning without sleep. He went downstairs to find John already up, staring at the kettle as if that would make it boil quicker.

Sherlock could identify five of the seven signs that John had sleep badly. Caused by a night in an unfamiliar bed, the unnatural silence of the countryside, or emotional distress? Almost certainly the latter, as Sherlock had observed no signs of sleeplessness on the previous two mornings.

“Sleep well?” asked John.

“Fine,” lied Sherlock. “You?”

“Yeah, thanks,” John lied back. They exchanged a look that said they were both aware of the truth of the situation.

“What's the plan for today?” asked John, but he was interrupted by a knock on the front door of the cottage.

Who on earth would come out to visit them at this time of the morning? Who even knew they were there, other than Mrs. Tregennis?

Sherlock saw John's hand twitch and then clench as he clearly had the same thoughts. No doubt he was wishing for his gun, which had been left in London.

When Sherlock opened the door, it was Mrs Tregennis and Jay. Jay looked very pale and his eyes were glazed with a look that Sherlock recognised as one of the milder symptoms of a severe shock, while Mrs Tregennis looked rather over-excited and was gripping her umbrella as if contemplating attacking someone with it. Interesting.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Oh, Sherlock,” said Mrs. Tregennis. “We need your help! Oh, what luck it is that you're staying at the moment!”

“What's the crime?” asked Sherlock, feeling excitement rush through him. Oh, this was so much better than another day of aimlessly strolling around the countryside!

“How did you know there's a crime?” asked Mrs. Tregennis.

People really did ask the most moronic questions. “What else would you specifically seek me out for?” he asked.

“Oh yes, of course,” said Mrs. Tregennis. “I'm sorry, I'm all aflutter.”

“Would you like to come in?” asked John.

Mrs. Tregennis did want to come in, and there followed a tedious amount of settling people in the sitting room while Sherlock chaffed at the delay.

“Tell me about it,” he demanded as soon as everyone was sitting.

“It's just terrible,” said Mrs. Tregennis. “We've never had anything like it in the area! It's just so-”

Sherlock knew from experience that such declarations could go on for quite some time. He interrupted. “Just the facts, please.”

“Oh, of course,” said Mrs. Tregennis. “Well, I suppose I should start with the background. Jieshi lodges with me, as you know, but he has family in the area. His two brothers, Chenglai and Xueyou, and his sister Lianhua, all live in a house that's up on the moor. Used to belong to their parents before they passed last year, God rest them. He was with them yesterday afternoon before he came home to have dinner with us. They seemed fine. They'd been playing cards and he left them still at it, having a grand old time.”

Sherlock glanced at Jay, wondering how he was going to react to having his story told by someone else, but he just sat silently by, nodding occasionally at points in Mrs. Tregennis's narrative.

“Well, that was then. This morning, he set out for one of his walks up onto the moor and saw an ambulance speeding towards the house. Naturally he followed it, and found the most awful thing! His family were still sat around the table where he had left them, but his sister was stone-cold dead, and his brothers had gone clear insane! They were just sitting in a state of catatonia, staring at nothing, and all three looked absolutely frightened out of their wits!”

She stopped and gave Sherlock a wide-eyed and expectant look, as if waiting for him to make some exclamation at that. Sherlock just looked at her until she started talking again.

“There's no neighbours anywhere around there and nothing in the house looked touched. They were found by the postman this morning. He saw them through the window and broke in to find out what was going on. Oh, Sherlock, please say you can make some sense of this, or I shall be forced to believe that the devil has come to Tredennick Wollas!”

“I hardly think that's likely,” said Sherlock. He looked at Jay. “Is that an accurate statement of events? Are there any further details you could add?”

Jay shook his head. “Not really,” he said. “I mean, I left them all having fun yesterday, and today they didn't even looked as if they'd moved.”

“What about the doors and windows?” asked Sherlock. “Were they open or shut?”

Jay had to think about that. “Chenglai let me out last night, and he locked the door behind me. They weren't intending to go out after that. The windows were all shut – it was raining yesterday, I don't know if you remember.”

Of course Sherlock remembered. It had been less than fifteen hours ago. “And I presume there's some reason that you didn't live with them. A family feud?”

Jay hesitated and then sighed. “Sort of,” he said. “It was more about our parents than us kids. They decided when I was off at University that I'd become too English. They were very traditionalist about our Chinese heritage. I had a white girlfriend, and they got upset about her. It was completely ridiculous, I couldn’t believe that they’d be so judgemental. Even after I broke up with Tina, we didn’t speak. They died last year – there was a car crash - and my siblings inherited everything in equal shares, but I got nothing. But that was all to do with our parents, not between us siblings.”

Sherlock considered that for a moment and then moved on. “And they were all in good moods yesterday? Not nervous at all?”

“No, they were all just normal,” said Jay.

Sherlock loathed the word 'normal'. It was completely useless to a criminal investigator and yet time after time, witnesses offered it up as if it meant something.

“Nothing else, then? No other tiny clue that might help,” he prompted. “Even the smallest thing might be useful.”

Jay thought for a long time and then said, hesitantly, “There's only one thing that really stands out. Xueyou thought he saw someone in the garden, watching us through the window, but no-one else saw anything.”

“You didn't investigate?” asked Sherlock.

“No, there didn't seem any point,” said Jay. “And it was raining. To be honest, I thought he was just trying to distract us because he had a bad hand.”

“I see,” said Sherlock. “Right then, describe precisely what you saw this morning, then.”

“I was heading up to the ruins on the eastern end of the moor when I saw the ambulance go past with its lights flashing. There's only my family's house up that way, so I immediately pegged it over there. When I got there, Lianhua was lying dead in her chair, head lolling back – god! I'll never forget it – and Xueyou and Chenglai were just sitting there, staring at the air as if it was filled with horrors, their muscles all jerking about. The paramedics found it nearly as shocking as I did. One of them had a dizzy spell and had to sit down before trying to get any sense out of my brothers.”

Sherlock frowned. Either there was some key element of the story missing, or this was at least a seven. Maybe even as much as an eight. He glanced at John, who had been very quiet since Mrs. Tregennis and Jay had arrived. John looked back at him but it was impossible to tell what he was thinking from his expression. 

Sherlock didn't know what to do. He desperately wanted to rush straight up to this house so he could investigate before the local police made a mess of all the evidence but that wasn't the point of this holiday. This was meant to be about what was best for John. 

Before the divorce, that would have been easy. A case had always been what was best, for both of them – John enjoyed being impressed by Sherlock and experiencing danger as much as Sherlock enjoyed showing off to him and finding the solution to a puzzle. John just hadn't been interested in cases recently though, and Sherlock didn't know if pursuing this one would undo all the good work that this holiday had accomplished already. 

“You will help, won't you?” said Mrs. Tregennis. “I'm sure Neville – DI Wallington - wouldn't mind you looking around – he probably be thrilled to get help from a celebrity!”

Sherlock twitched at the suggestion that he was a celebrity.

“Of course he will,” said John. “I take it the police are already up at the house?”

Sherlock let himself relax. He wasn't going to have to let a case that sounded this good pass him by, at least not yet. He'd have to keep an eye on John's mood in case this caused it to deteriorate, but it looked hopeful for the moment. John was giving Mrs. Tregennis his best sympathetic look – that was always a good sign.

“Oh yes,” she said. “Neville's up there, probably trying not to crumble under the pressure. I don’t think he's ever had a murder before, you know.”

“We'll give him a hand then,” said Sherlock. He couldn't help rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. Murder and madness! Finally something interesting was happening in Cornwall!

It wasn't until after Mrs. Tregennis and Jay had left that John looked at Sherlock and cocked an eyebrow. “We?” he questioned.

It took a moment for Sherlock to realise what he meant. When he did, he frowned. “Of course 'we',” he said. “If you wouldn't let me stay here while you wandered around the shops, I'm not leaving you here when there's a murder to investigate.”

John didn't look convinced and for a horrible moment Sherlock thought he was going to make an excuse not to come.

“It sounds like I'll need someone with medical expertise,” he added, stepping closer to John as if proximity would have any impact on John’s decision-making process. “And you told me yourself that you’re a very good doctor.”

John stared at him for a long moment and then let out a long, slow breath, looking away as if he had something to hide. He shook his head with resignation. “Oh, fine,” he said. “I'll come.”

****

As they arrived at the crime scene, Sherlock could see through the window that Jay's brothers had already been removed, but the body of the sister was still in her chair, being examined by a very puzzled-looking coroner. Sherlock strode past the police cordon, ignoring the rather pathetic attempts of a PC to stop him, and went into the house. John was at his heels, calling apologies behind them, but not pausing or holding back from the crime scene. Not yet, anyway.

“Who the bloody hell are you, and what the fuck are you doing at my crime scene?” asked a man that Sherlock guessed was DI Wallington from the cheap suit and belligerent attitude. Trying to mask his panic at the unexpected situation with aggression. Not ideal in a DI that Sherlock had to work with, but hopefully he'd realise the benefit of working with Sherlock once he'd had a moment to think about it.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “Jay has asked me to assist you with your investigation.”

“Sherlock Holmes?” asked Wallington, sounding rather sceptical. “What, the detective?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “The very same.”

Wallington looked him over and then shook his head. “Blow me, it is you,” he said. “I recognise you even without the hat.”

Oh god, not the bloody hat again. Sherlock gritted his teeth together. “If you are aware of who I am, then you must be aware that it is in your best interests to let me take a look at the crime scene.”

Wallington glanced over his shoulder and then let out a long breath. “Ah, fuck it,” he said. “I'm probably going to be in trouble with my superiors either way. Haven't had a murder round here since Charlie Harris hit Dickie Morecambe in the face with a spade seven years ago, and he did that in front of three witnesses. Was pretty easy to sort out, especially once his Mrs. mentioned that she'd been sleeping with Dickie behind his back. This, though, I haven't the first flaming clue where to start. Or even if it is murder – might just be some weird disease or something, for all I know.”

“Unlikely, given the circumstances,” said Sherlock, sliding past him and into the room so that he could take a proper look.

The chairs were still gathered around the card table, as Jay had said, although Sherlock could see where two of them had been moved in order to get Chenglai and Xueyou out. Lianhua was slumped in the last one, her face frozen with wide eyes and horribly contorted features. She was still clutching her cards in one hand, although she'd clenched her fist tightly enough to crumple them.  Sherlock glanced at them and noted that she'd probably have won the round if they'd played it out rather than going mad or dying. 

Would annoyance at being beaten at cards by a sister be enough to send two men mad and cause them to murder her in some as yet unknown way? Unlikely, but not impossible. Sherlock could remember chess games when he was a child during which he would have happily murdered Mycroft.

John had hung back in the doorway, so Sherlock turned to fix him with a meaningful look and then nodded at the corpse. This was the test. Either John would get involved or Sherlock would have to abandon the case and take John back to the cottage so that he could continue to work at whatever was keeping him from properly enjoying a murder.

John gave a little sigh but he did start moving towards the dead woman. Sherlock allowed himself a moment of satisfaction and relief, and then started to go over the room, searching for anything that looked out of place. The room was rather boringly decorated with a handful of pictures of Chinese cityscapes hung on magnolia walls. There was a shrine for the dead in the corner that had been carefully built into the wall when it was new, but there was now a fine layer of dust over the incense bowls. Clearly, the children’s devotion to their cultural traditions was not as strong as the parents’ had been.

There was a large fireplace set in the wall behind Lianhua with the remains of a fire that must have been burning the previous day in it. It looked as if it had burnt itself out overnight, although when Sherlock bent down to examine it further, there was a strange consistency to the ash. He scrapped a small amount of the ash into an envelope to examine later.

“What's that?” asked DI Wallington.

“Probably nothing,” said Sherlock, standing up to take another look at the room.

John was next to the coroner, bent over the body of Lianhua. He glanced up when he felt Sherlock's eyes on him and shook his head slightly. “Not a clue how she died,” he said. “Poison, maybe? Nothing I know if it is. Looks like her heart just gave out.”

Sherlock nodded, trying to contain the thrill that ran through him at the way John was actually letting himself be involved in this investigation.

“We'll know more after an autopsy,” said the coroner. He sighed. “If we're allowed to do one. Sometimes these ethnic types get awfully funny about autopsies.”

John aimed an irritated glare at the coroner.

“I don't think that will be a problem,” said Sherlock. “Her next of kin seems to care more about finding the solution to this mystery than keeping to any pointless traditions.”

“You mean Jay?” said DI Wallington. “Oh aye, he’ll understand the point of it. His parents would have been a different matter, I’d say. They never did manage to get their head around how things work here.”

That fitted with what Jay had told them about the family rift. “His siblings weren't the same, then?” he asked.

“No, they all pretty much abided by what their parents wanted, as far as I know,” said DI Wallington. “Does seem odd, though. If they didn't want their kids to be British, why'd they move here?”

“Any of a number of reasons,” said Sherlock, turning to take one last look at the room. There was no more data waiting to be collected. He looked at John. “Time to leave.”

John nodded. “Right.” He turned to deal with the necessary goodbyes to the DI while Sherlock strode outside, stopping to examine the ground under the window but finding nothing. There was no obvious starting point to unravel this case – oh, wonderful! It was definitely an eight. Possibly even a nine.

“What's the plan?” asked John once he'd followed Sherlock outside.

“Back to the cottage,” said Sherlock. “I need my nicotine patches.”

****

Nicotine patches didn't bring any enlightenment. Sherlock lay on the sofa in the sitting room for several hours, his mind running through all the facts and possibilities but coming up with nothing.

John pottered about around him, reading a book for a bit and then making himself lunch. He didn't bother offering Sherlock any, or if he did, he wasn't insistent enough for Sherlock to notice, which was as good as the same thing. He came back in afterwards and sat down with his book again, and the movement pulled Sherlock out of his frustrated third run-through of the facts.

John was looking at his book with a faint frown that said his mind was a million miles away from the plot. That wouldn't do – Sherlock hadn't brought him on holiday so that he could brood. He needed to be up and about, doing something active so that he felt productive.

“You should go for a walk,” he said.

John looked up from his page. “What?”

“Go for a walk,” repeated Sherlock, fluttering his hands in the direction of the door. “The beach – you haven't been back to the beach since the first night. You can walk the whole way to Tredannick Wollas along it, if you choose to.”

John put his book down. “Come with me, then.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I'm thinking.”

“You're not getting anywhere,” said John. “Do you think I can’t tell when you've reached a dead end by now? If you're going to force me to walk on the beach, you're coming too. Getting some sea air and sunshine might help, you never know.”

Sherlock hesitated. There was some merit in what John said, especially if he could talk it all out to John and get everything put in its proper order in the way that only seemed to happen when he spoke to John. That said, the beach was one of the last places he wanted to go. “The moor, then. Or along the top of the cliffs – we can search for flint arrows. I found them up there occasionally when I was a child.”

John's eyes narrowed. “What's going on?” he asked.

Sherlock tried to look innocent. “What do you mean?”

“You're avoiding the beach,” said John. “This is the third time I've suggested it and you've changed the subject. And that's not the only place you're avoiding – you haven't set foot in the room I'm using once, not even when I was in the other bathroom and you needed the loo. Rather than use the en suite, you just stood outside and called insults in at me. What's going on?”

Ah, he'd noticed that. Sherlock had hoped the anger caused by the insults would prevent him from thinking logically about the incident.

“Nothing,” he said firmly.

“Bollocks,” said John. “What happened the last time you were here?”

The annoying thing was that Sherlock actually wanted to tell John, even though he was aware that his reaction was unlikely to be a good one. Or would it? Sherlock was suddenly unsure. He was never completely successful at predicting John's reactions, after all.

“Fine,” he said. “The beach.”

****

As they headed down the steep path to the beach, Sherlock found himself becoming more and more emotionally compromised by his memories.

 _This is ridiculous,_ he thought, when the first glimpse of sand made his shoulders tense against the rising dread. _Pull yourself together._

“It really is a lovely view,” said John, once they were at the base of the cliff.

“Mmmm,” said Sherlock. His attention was fixed on a large rock at the mouth of an alcove in the cliff that was probably too small to be called a cave. He found himself walking over to it despite the fact that he'd been intending to ignore its presence.

“Something up with it?” asked John, once he’d noticed Sherlock's behaviour.

Sherlock set his hand on the top of the rock. “It's been moved,” he said. “It used to be a foot further that way.”

“Moved?” asked John. “Jesus, that must have been some doing. How do you know?”

Sherlock took in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. Enough prevaricating. “Because I was the one who moved it. And yes, it was rather difficult.”

“Why on earth did you do it then?” asked John, examining the rock as if the answers would be written on its surface.

Sherlock hesitated.

John reached out a hand to touch Sherlock's elbow. “You okay?”

Sherlock let the truth flow out of him. “If you rolled this stone away again, and then dug down about two feet, you'd find an old leather case containing a handful of syringes and a phial of cocaine solution. I buried them the last time I was here, which was about ten years ago. I stayed at the cottage for about a month, most of which I spent in the bedroom you're now using, suffering from withdrawal.”

“Oh,” said John softly. 

He ran his hand up Sherlock's arm to hold on to his shoulder with a grip that made Sherlock feel far more grounded and focused on the present than the memories wanted him to be. He tore his gaze away from the rock and settled it on John's face instead. 

“Rather a long time ago, now.”

“Yeah,” agreed John. “Ten years, Christ. I wasn't even in Afghanistan then.”

“And I wasn't a consulting detective,” said Sherlock. “That only started once I returned to London.”

“We were still on our ways to becoming who we are now,” said John. “Wonder where we'll be ten years from now.” He blinked and his face fell into sad lines at the thought. His hand slipped from Sherlock’s shoulder.

_Mary again,_ thought Sherlock. He thought about where he wanted to be in ten years, but all he could picture was being exactly where he was now, only with a happier version of John. That seemed very unlikely. John would be looking for another woman to marry once he was over this divorce, and given his undoubted charms, he was bound to find one. Sherlock would be where he had been six months ago, on the edges of John's life and stuck wishing for more.

“Well, that explains why you didn't want to come down here,” said John, glancing at the rock again. “Wait, is it safe to leave that buried? Surely it counts as an environmental hazard?”

Sherlock couldn't hold in a snort of amusement. Trust John to worry about something that petty. “I'm sure it won't matter if the crabs are all high. Besides, it was all sealed up.”

“Right,” said John, uncertainly.

Sherlock felt a grin spread across his face. He couldn't stop himself from reaching out to touch John's arm. For some reason, he felt as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. 

“Which direction do you want to walk in?” he asked, feeling a lot happier about being on the beach now. After all, he wasn't alone like he had been ten years ago. This time he had John with him.

John stared at him for a moment and Sherlock wondered if he’d given too much away by touching him. _He touched me first,_ he reminded himself, but he did let go of John’s arm, reluctant though he was to do so.

John pulled his gaze away to glance both ways down the beach and shrug. “Does it matter?”

Sherlock indicated to the right, where the beach continued on as far as the headland of the bay. “There are some rather more impressive caves that way, and we're less likely to run into other people.”

“That way it is, then,” said John. “And you can talk through the case as we go.”

Sherlock favoured him with another smile before reminding himself that he needed to dial them back if he didn't want his feelings for John to become obvious. Maybe that would be easier if John didn’t keep returning them with obvious pleasure. 

“Precisely what I need,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” said John as they started walking. “As long as I don't ask any stupid questions, I'm the perfect sounding board.”

“You're allowed some stupid questions,” said Sherlock generously. “One or two, certainly.” John just snorted and shook his head as if in disbelief. “Besides, we don't actually have that much to go on at the moment. The best we can hope for is to put all the facts in order so that when new ones turn up, we know where they should go.”

“You're hoping for something from forensics?” asked John.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Anderson might not work in Cornwall but that didn't mean that there wouldn't be other incompetents around. “More likely the autopsy,” he said. “And they'll do a medical examination of the brothers. Something should turn up – you can't turn two people mad and kill another without leaving some evidence behind in their bodies.”

“Unless it was the devil,” said John with forced innocence. Sherlock sent him a very black look and didn't bother replying to that.

“So, we have two mad and one dead, probably not long after Jay left the house. In fact, appearances suggest that it was hardly any time after that at all. They were still playing cards, the chairs hadn't been moved. So, the obvious first point of investigation would be to check on Jay's movements after he left, but we already know them. He was at Mrs. Tregennis's when we arrived, so given the time he said he left the house, he must have gone straight back. That said, not everything Jay said can be trusted. That mysterious figure in the garden, for example – it rained yesterday afternoon-”

“I remember,” said John with the gloomy tones of someone who had got thoroughly soaked.

“There were no footsteps anywhere on the lawn or flowerbeds,” said Sherlock. “If someone had been in the garden when Jay claims his brother saw someone, there would have been some signs of it.”

“Right,” said John. “So, what? Jay did it?”

Sherlock glared at him. “You're theorising before the facts,” he pointed out, for what must have been the hundredth time. “Come on, John, you know better than that.”

“Yeah, right, sorry,” said John. “Of course – we've got no evidence how or why he'd have killed them, or even if he's lying about the figure in the garden. Maybe his brother was lying or mistaken. Maybe there really was someone there, but they were, I don't know, levitating or a ghost, or-”

“You're being facetious,” interrupted Sherlock.

“Little bit, yeah,” agreed John.

They'd reached the end of the beach, at the very tip of the headland. They stopped so that John could look back around at the full view of the bay and make trite remarks about how beautiful it was.

“You're not wrong, though,” said Sherlock.

John blinked. “About the view?”

“No, no. About the lack of evidence. As it stands, there's nothing we can follow up on.” Sherlock let out an irritated groan. “I hate having to rely on the police to turn up more evidence.”

John patted his shoulder commiseratingly. “Maybe we'll fall over a clue on the way back to the cottage,” he said. “Or it'll be waiting there for us – a mysterious threatening note or something fun like that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “This isn't an Agatha Christie novel, John.”

“Nope, my detective is far ruder than any of hers,” said John.

Sherlock had to look away, out to sea, to hide his reaction to John using a possessive to describe him. _I'd be far more than just your detective, if you wanted it,_ he thought. _I'd be yours in every way._

John didn't want, though. It was past time for Sherlock to get used to that.

“Let's head back,” he said. “You want to subject me to superheroes tonight.”

John blinked. “How did you-” he stopped himself, and then snorted a laugh. “I don't know why I still bother asking that.”

“You seem to enjoy asking a whole range of redundant questions,” Sherlock pointed out, and then strode off back towards the cottage, taking John by surprise so that he had to jog to catch up.

They walked mainly in silence, their feet crunching through the shingle. Sherlock kept his ‘be quiet; I’m thinking’ expression on his face to discourage John from talking to him while he carefully buttoned down his emotions again. John kept glancing at his face but Sherlock’s expression clearly discouraged him from whatever he was thinking about saying, and instead he turned his attention back out to the sea. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see his face growing solemn, almost melancholy. He wondered if John was thinking about the case. He often seemed to get far too emotionally involved with the victims of the crimes they investigated.

When they reached the bottom of the path up to the cottage, John paused to take in the view one last time before they headed up. Sherlock waited for him, trying to keep his gaze away from a certain rock.

“I’ve sort of been avoiding come down here as well,” John said, his eyes still on the horizon. “Last time I was on a beach, it was in Brighton. Mary and I went for the day, for our anniversary.”

Sherlock held himself still to avoid a flinch. “I remember,” he said. What was the purpose of remembering such a thing? Surely John wasn't going to torture himself every time he went somewhere similar to somewhere he'd been with Mary?

“I broke her heart on it,” said John, very quietly.

Sherlock's head whipped around to stare at him. He'd heard nothing about this. As far as he was aware, Mary had been the one to decide she was going to leave, although he hadn't bothered to find out the precise reasons. He’d thought they’d only make him angry but he wondered now if his ignorance was a mistake.

“That was seven months before you separated,” he pointed out.

John ducked a nod, staring down at the stones. “We were both hoping that something would change. But it never did, and eventually she gave me an ultimatum that I couldn't – that I didn't want to-” He broke off and took a deep breath. “She wanted things I couldn't give her,” he said. “Staying together wouldn't have done either of us any good. Those seven months made that clear.”

Sherlock turned that over in his head. The obvious conclusion was that Mary had asked John to spend less time chasing after criminals with Sherlock – it was what all the rest of John's women had wanted. That wasn't right, though. Mary had never seemed to mind as long as John kept her updated on when he thought he might be home, and her attitude towards Sherlock had included none of the resentment that Sherlock would expect in such a situation. Something else, then, but what? What could anyone possibly want to change about John?

“What was the ultimatum?” he asked.

John shook his head. “It doesn't matter now. It's done. I wouldn't change my choices, and I know that hers were the best for her.”

If that was true, then why was John so sad about the whole affair? Surely if he knew that they were both doing the right thing, then there was no need for him to mope about it?

“Come on,” said John, turning to head up the cliff path. “Superheroes, right? And we've got those sausages as well. And don't try and tell me you're not eating, you've already said there's nothing to be done for the case right now.”

That was a pretty clear signal that John didn't want to discuss the subject any further. Sherlock let it drop, but he kept turning it over in his head as they climbed up to the cottage.

****

They didn't get as far as superheroes, because when they arrived back at the cottage, there was a man waiting for them.

He was wearing a khaki short-sleeved shirt that wasn't entirely suited to early Autumn in England, and he had a black canvas bag that looked like the kind of thing a seasoned traveller would use as cabin luggage. His tan was far darker than he would have got over the course of the English summer, or even on a mere holiday. He had spent several weeks – possibly even months – in a hot climate, wearing shirts very similar to the one he was currently sporting and a peaked cap. He must have been waiting for their return for some time but he hadn't sat on the front step of the cottage, choosing instead to pace up and down the drive as he waited for them.

“Sherlock Holmes?” he called before Sherlock and John were even really in earshot, striding towards them.

“Good afternoon,” said Sherlock with interest. Was this another case, or an interesting addition to the current one?

“I'm Leon Sterndale,” said the man. “I need to know if you've got any information about Lianhua's murder.”

“Do you?” asked Sherlock. Oh, this was fascinating.

“I- sorry,” said Sterndale, making an effort to hide his agitation – far too late, of course. “I suppose I should explain. I have no confidence in the local police. I had some equipment stolen last year, and they could barely manage to interview me about it, let alone find the culprit. I live near here when I'm in the country, in a house over the other side of the bay. I grew up here as well – that's how I met Lianhua. We’re engaged. We were engaged. Oh god, I just – I can't believe she's dead. The news only just reached me before I got on my plane, and I just had to come back and-”

He broke off and took a deep breath. “I’m babbling. That’s not why I came here. You have to tell me what you know about her death.”

Sherlock ignored the demand in favour of a more interesting question. “You missed your plane?”

Sterndale shrugged that aside. “There'll be another.”

“Where were you going?” asked John.

“Brazil,” said Sterndale. “I'm a wildlife cameraman – we're doing a series on jungle wildlife for the BBC.”

“Oh, wow,” said John. “That sounds really interesting.” Sherlock knew him well enough to tell that John was faking at least some of his interest in order to prompt more information out of Sterndale, but that didn't stop him feeling a vague annoyance that someone else was able to prompt that level of awe from John. That tone of voice was for Sherlock's deductions and shouldn't be used on anyone else.

“Ah, yeah,” said Sterndale. He puffed up a bit. “David Attenborough is involved. It's going to be pretty special.”

“And who texted you with the news about Lianhua?” asked Sherlock while Sterndale was distracted. It was highly unlikely that the news had already spread as far as Heathrow, although he supposed it might have made it as far as the internet.

“Brenda Tregennis,” said Sterndale. 

Ah, of course. She’d have told everyone she could, the moment she knew. Sherlock gave Sterndale a polite smile. “Thank you. In answer to your original question, I haven't yet drawn any firm conclusions about this case, but I am confident that I will in time. Now, if you'll excuse me,” He tried to move past Sterndale into the cottage, but the man moved in front of him to block his path.

“You don't even have any suspicions? Main suspects?”

Sherlock let his smile fade into a frown. “You can't honestly think I'd answer that.”

Sterndale glared at him. “Then I've wasted my bloody time coming here,” he said. He spun on his heel and stomped away down the drive.

“Blimey,” said John, watching him go. “Bit tetchy.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock. He watched Sterndale stomp away, thought about the cup of tea he'd been hoping for, and mentally resigned himself to an hour or two more without it. “I'm going to follow him. Don't wait up.”

John snorted. “I never do.”

Sherlock had to wipe away the image of coming back late at night to find John sitting awake in his bed, reading a book and waiting to give him a welcoming kiss. That was never going to be his life.

He set off after Sterndale, hoping that there would be at least some point in doing so. Any new clues would be more than welcome at this point.

****

By the time he got back, it was dark and getting chilly. He’d got nothing from his evening of trailing around after Sterndale, or at least nothing that would help him right now. Sterndale had gone to Mrs. Tregennis’s for tea and what looked to Sherlock, through the kitchen window, as sympathy, and then gone back to his own house, around the other side of the bay. Sherlock had waited there for long enough to be sure that Sterndale was settling in for the night and then walked all the way back around to the cottage, wishing he’d thought to put his scarf on.

He walked into the sitting room to find that John had lit a fire and had a shower, and was curled up on the sofa with a book, wearing nothing but a dressing gown. The sight stopped him in the doorway. There was nothing he wanted more than to go over and collapse into John, to feel the fire-warmed edges of his skin, to wrap himself in the relaxation that John was as good as transmitting and never let go. God, he had bare feet – Sherlock wanted to touch them, to feel them flex in his grip, naked and vulnerable and accessible to Sherlock.

“Find out anything?” asked John.

Sherlock couldn't reply. If he opened his mouth, the only words that were going to fly out would be about the firelight glinting off John's damp hair or the way the bathrobe gaped open at his neck, revealing a smattering of golden chest hair. Instead, he made a noise in his throat that he hoped conveyed annoyance and then turned and ran to his room, where he could put a shut door between himself and the temptation of John looking like that.

God, how could he still be affected this much by John? How was it fair that he'd spent so long working on being nothing but John’s friend and yet he could still be blind-sided by something so simple as the way his toes curled against a sofa cushion?

****

He didn't go downstairs until the next morning. He lay awake in his room and listened to John going to bed, trying to concentrate his brain on the case rather than how easy it would be to get up, walk to John's room and slide into bed with him. If he waited until John was asleep and was stealthy enough, he could probably stay there for several hours before he had to leave.

 _No,_ he told himself resolutely. _No taking advantage of John's trust, or you'll lose it._

He only managed an hour or two of sleep and gave up entirely once the sun came up. He went down to the kitchen, made tea, and then settled down with the sample of ash he'd taken from the Luo’s fireplace.

By the time John came down – mercifully fully dressed – Sherlock was so immersed in trying to get decent results from the make-shift scientific equipment he was using that he was able to greet John as normal, with a grunt that made it clear he was concentrating on other things.

“I take it you want tea,” said John.

Sherlock grunted in an affirmative manner. The cup he'd made himself had long since gone cold, only half drunk. Tea made by John would be better anyway – it always was.

“But no breakfast,” continued John, moving to the kettle.

Sherlock grunted in a negative manner. What on earth was this substance? He'd never seen anything like it, and none of his tests were being the least bit helpful about revealing its secrets.

“Right then,” said John. “And how long are you going to be doing science for?”

That was a ridiculous question. Until he'd found some answers, of course. Sherlock didn't bother responding.

John gave up on conversation after that. He put a mug of tea beside Sherlock and then settled down with his breakfast.

“Okay,” he said when he was finished. “If you're going to be doing that for hours, I'm going to walk into the village. Is there anything in particular you want for lunch?”

Sherlock made a face at the very idea of food.

“My choice, then,” said John. He stood up and took his plate to the sink to wash it up. “Anything else you want me to get?”

“All the newspapers,” said Sherlock. “Local and national.” They'd be reporting the murder today. He wanted to see what they said – it would be inaccurate rubbish, of course, but it was always good to know what information was available to the public about a case.

John sighed. “Anything a bit lighter?” he asked.

Sherlock raised his head long enough to glare at John, but dropped it back to his work when the fond-but-exasperated look on John's face threatened to made him want to abandon the current test in favour of kissing him until they were both shaking and breathless.

“Yeah, yeah,” said John quietly. “All the papers, got it. I'll see you later then – I'll be back for lunch at the latest.”

Sherlock nodded vaguely in his direction without taking his eyes off what he was doing. John let out a sigh that was more for show than because he was annoyed, and left. Sherlock felt his shoulders relax. If John wasn't there, then he didn't need to worry about slipping up and kissing him.

****

By lunchtime, Sherlock had exhausted all the tests he could do with the equipment he had and decided there was only one possible course of action left. Unfortunately, due to the promise he'd made John about dangerous experiments, he couldn't do it without John there. Until he came back, there was nothing to do but clear up the equipment, which Sherlock wasn't really in the mood to do. Instead, he found himself wandering upstairs to the doorway of what was now John's bedroom, where he stood in the doorway and looked at the bed, its sheets still rumpled. When he'd been here before, the sheets had been more than rumpled and had smelt of sour sweat and unpleasant bodily fluids. Now they'd smell like John, warm and comforting.

He didn't go in to verify that. Instead, he just memorised the creases in the pillows that showed John's usual sleeping position and wondered why he insisted on torturing himself like this. There must be some way to turn off the flood of emotion that John evoked in him. It was irrational that humans should be subject to such a thing with no way to control it.

The front door opened and Sherlock started back from the doorway as if John could see through the floor and would know what Sherlock was doing.

“Sherlock?” called John from somewhere near the kitchen. Sherlock turned to hurry downstairs.

John was setting down two bags of shopping on the worktop, one of which contained nothing but newspapers. “There you are,” he said. “You done with your experiment?”

“No,” said Sherlock. “The next part requires you.”

“That sounds rather worrying,” said John, starting to unpack whatever food he'd felt the urge to buy.

Sherlock made an irritated noise and resisted the urge to physically pull John away from the pointlessness of what he was doing. “Leave all that, it's not nearly as interesting as this.”

“What exactly is 'this'?” asked John. “What do you need me to do?”

“Nothing in particular,” said Sherlock. “You just need to be present. And to give me a report on what you experience once I'm done.”

John stopped faffing with the food long enough to turn and frown at Sherlock. “No, I need more than that,” he said. “Full disclosure, Sherlock.”

Sherlock let out a loud sigh. “I have been unable to identify the substance that I found in the fireplace at the Luos’,” he said. “The only course left is to burn some to see what happens. However, you made me promise not to do any dangerous experiments without you present.”

John blinked. “And you actually paid attention to that?”

“I always keep my promises to you,” said Sherlock, hurt that John would think otherwise. What was the point of making promises if you didn't keep them? It wasn't as if you couldn't manipulate people into thinking you'd made a promise when, in fact, you had done no such thing.

John gave a little nod and ducked his head, then looked up again with a frown. “Wait, how dangerous is this going to be?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I have no idea. If you'd let me bring all the equipment I wanted to, I'd probably be able to do it without any danger at all, but-”

“Yes, yes, I know,” interrupted John. “I'm a terrible person who ruins all your fun. All right, fine. You can burn the tiniest amount, with all the windows open.”

Sherlock beamed at him and turned to grab the sample.

“But we're having lunch first,” continued John. 

Sherlock stopped short. “What? No, John, there's no-”

John interrupted him. “There is absolutely no need for it to be done immediately, and I'm hungry. Given the kinds of smells your experiments usually give off, there's no guarantee I'll be in the mood to eat afterwards.”

Sherlock let out a strangled noise of frustration, but slumped into a chair and let John clear off half the table and set two place settings. John had agreed a lot easier than he'd thought he would; the least he could do was humour him in this.

****

It wasn't until halfway through lunch, when John was asking Sherlock questions about the tests he'd already tried and actually showing interest in the answers, that Sherlock realised just how much more engaged John was in this case than he had been in anything since the divorce. Clearly, all he had needed was some time away from London doing boring country things to remember just how much more interesting life was with a few cases along the way. This boded well for the success of Sherlock’s plan. Hopefully, when they returned to London John would be enough his old self to participate in Sherlock’s work again.

“Okay,” said John once he'd cleared away the remains of lunch. “How are we doing this?”

“Open all the windows,” Sherlock said. “Move two chairs next to the doorway, then sit in one of them.”

He placed a tiny amount of the substance on a dish while John did so, then regarded it for a moment. No point in doing this with a sample size so small there were no noticeable effects. He added a bit more.

“Right,” he said, picking up the matches. “I'm going to set this alight, then we're going to sit by the door and note any effects it has on us. Let me know as soon as you experience something abnormal.”

John nodded. “Got it.”

Sherlock spared a moment to express his gratitude that John was going along with this with a smile, and then struck the match, dropped it on the substance, and moved to sit in the chair on the opposite side of the doorway from John, positioned so that they could watch each other.

“It may take a while to take effect,” he said.

It didn't. In what seemed like no time at all, the room filled with smoke, thick, black and cloying. Breathing it felt as if hands were fastened around his throat, choking him. He stared at John, whose face had gone pale, and tried to tell him that they should move further away, but there was movement in the smoke and suddenly Sherlock was too terrified to move, to even speak. The shadow moved again, stalking slowly through the billowing smoke to emerge behind John, looming over him. It was Moriarty. The fear paralysing Sherlock surged until he thought his heart was going to explode from it, beating in his chest so frantically that he could feel it thudding against his ribs.

Moriarty stared at Sherlock with a crazed grin and manic, staring eyes, then hovered his hands over John's shoulders, curled as if to grip at his throat.

_Burn the heart out of you,_ he mouthed.

Sherlock fixed his eyes on John's face, wanting to warn him but unable to open his mouth and get the words out. John looked just as terrified, his chest heaving with short, ragged breaths as he stared into the corner of the room.

Moriarty's hands elongated into claws, blood-red nails like needles brushing against John's throat. Sherlock tried to scream but all that came out was a hoarse croak.

It was enough to catch John's attention. He started and stared at Sherlock with eyes so wide that white showed all the way around his irises.

Moriarty cackled and bent forward over John while ice froze Sherlock's limbs, holding him in place even though he should be moving, should be fighting to get John safe. There were other figures behind Moriarty, vague shapes that Sherlock recognised all too well as the members of Moriarty's organisation that it had taken him three years to hunt down and eradicate. They were all here, all free and alive, all bent on John's destruction above all else.

John suddenly gave a massive wrench, bursting out of his seat and grabbing Sherlock's wrists. He pulled him up, forcing Sherlock's terror-struck limbs to move, and dragged him out of the door, out of the reach of all those criminals. They kept stumbling forward until they were out of the front door and onto the front lawn.

Sherlock became aware that John was panting out, “Oh god, oh god, oh god.” He glanced back at his shoulder at the cottage and saw Moriarty standing in the doorway, holding a very long knife.

“The baby!” exclaimed John for no reason. He pulled away from Sherlock, towards the cottage. “Oh god, I left the baby, I need to-”

He was heading back towards where Moriarty was waiting for him with his knife. Sherlock lunged for him, clasping his arms around his waist and bearing him to the ground. “No!” he said. “No, no, no, no, no. You can't – not safe.”

“The baby!” said John again, fighting to get free of Sherlock's grip. “Oh god, I left it, I left it, it's- Christ, Jesus Christ.” Sherlock held onto him with everything he had, and eventually John stopped struggling. “Oh god, I knew I'd make this choice,” he said in a desperate voice, and then he collapsed against Sherlock, clinging on just as strongly as he’d been trying to get free a moment before.

“I knew I'd do this,” he said, and the end of the sentence disintegrated into sobs.

He stayed like that for a long time, crying against Sherlock's chest while Sherlock held him as tightly as he could and watched the shadow of Moriarty staring at them, not blinking as he slowly faded away.

Sherlock's mind came back to him several minutes before John stopped crying. He was able to try and find some sort of logic in the effects of the substance while still feeling the reassure of John's body against his. God, that had been horrific. No wonder Chenglai and Xueyou had gone mad.

John's tears dried up but he didn't move away from Sherlock's embrace or let go of his own grip on Sherlock. For a few minutes they just lay in the sunshine of the Cornwall afternoon and breathed.

_If I don't let go soon, he'll realise I'm in love with him,_ thought Sherlock, but it seemed a distant concern. John wasn't letting go either, after all. Perhaps he found the physical proof that they were both alive and well as reassuring as Sherlock did.

“Christ,” said John eventually, finally pulling away from Sherlock to roll over onto his back next to him, close enough that their shoulders were pressed together. Sherlock had to fight to not roll after him and keep him trapped in his arms, safe and secure. “What the hell was that?” 

“Something that killed a woman and drove two men mad,” said Sherlock. He thought about pulling out his phone and googling the symptoms, but he wasn't sure his mind was recovered enough for that. He couldn't keep himself from glancing back at the cottage, just to check that Moriarty was still gone.

_Just a hallucination,_ he reminded himself.

It had felt like so much more than just a hallucination though. It had felt more real than the grass beneath him did, than almost anything except John's shoulder against his did. He'd been completely taken in by it, frozen to his chair and unable to move. If John hadn't pulled him out, he'd still be there now, either mad or dead.

He cleared his throat. “That was- Getting us out was, uh, good,” he said, and the words sounded useless and pathetic to him, far too little to express his gratitude that John was apparently better able to resist terror-induced paralysis and so had kept them both from a hideous fate.

John let out a half-laugh. “Yeah, well, I thought the place was on fire,” he said. “Could feel the flames reaching for us. They looked like serpents.”

Sherlock considered that. “You mentioned a baby,” he commented.

If Sherlock hadn't been so close to John, he wouldn't have noticed the shiver go through him.

“Yeah,” John said after a moment, in a very quiet voice. “Yeah, there was one of those, too.”

Sherlock stayed silent, hoping for further illumination. His own visions had been rather tediously obvious. The idea that a maniacal criminal such as Moriarty would harm John had been his greatest fear since the incident at the swimming pool. He'd have assumed that John's own hallucinations would be related to Afghanistan in some way, or perhaps to Sherlock's fall. He knew John still occasionally had nightmares about that, although he knew John preferred him to pretend that was a secret.

John gripped Sherlock's wrist. Sherlock turned his head to look at him, but John was staring up at the sky overheard. 

“That's what Mary's ultimatum was about,” he said. “We were-” He stopped and took a deep breath. Sherlock didn't move or speak, too afraid of breaking the moment and making John clam up. “She made it clear very early in our relationship that she wanted children, and that she was aware that time was running out for her, biologically speaking. She was very upfront about it. She said that if I wasn't interested in a family, then there was no point in us going out – she said that on our third date. I mean, she was very calm and rational about it. She always is. She just lays out what she wants and then it's up to you to either fall in with it, or get out of her way.”

He fell silent. Sherlock let him watch the clouds for a moment and then risked prompting him for more.

“You fell in with it, then.”

John let out a long breath. “Yeah,” he said. “I mean, I'd never really thought about children – I was in the Army, and then I was chasing criminals with you, and there just didn't ever seem space for them. That was all behind me then, though. You'd been dead for over a year. I thought about it and I liked the idea of having a family. I wanted something to give me a purpose, you know? Something to build a life around and make me feel like I was, I don't know, necessary. Children seemed like a good way to do that, and Mary was. Well, I knew I was falling in love with her. I wanted that with her.”

Sherlock didn't know how to react to that. He'd never considered having children as something John might get involved in, although he wasn't sure why. That was what tended to follow marriage, for the deathly dull ‘normal’ couples that John had always aspired to be part of.

“That's why we married so quickly,” said John. “I mean, we'd barely known each other two years, but there didn't seem any point in waiting, not when time was ticking by and we were both getting older. And then you came back.”

That had been two months before the wedding. Sherlock had got back and the first thing he had observed about John was that he was engaged to a woman and moving on to a life that didn't revolve around Sherlock. It had been like having his stomach ripped out to realise that he wasn't going to get to return to the life he had left behind, exactly as it had been. It was that sensation that had made him realise just how completely, devastatingly in love with John he was.

“Those two months before the wedding, we were involved in a bunch of cases. Do you remember? It felt like we were rushing about risking our lives every other day.”

That had been purposeful. Sherlock had wanted to revel in being back in London, solving cases, as much as he could after his three years away, and he also wanted to pack as much time with John in as he could before the inevitable separation that his marriage would cause.

“I'd just got you back – you were dead, and I got you back. It was a miracle. We were solving cases together just like I’d missed so much when you were gone. But I knew that once there was a baby, even just one on the way, I wouldn't be able to do it any more. That wouldn't have been fair; I couldn't risk my life every week if there was a child depending on me to be there to provide for it and look after it and all those things. I talked to Mary about it – we talked for hours, and in the end she agreed that we'd wait. She said I could have a year-” John broke off with a disgusted sound. “That makes her sound like my mum, telling me what to do. It wasn't like that. We reached a mutual decision that balanced what we both needed. I needed some time to get used to you being alive and to enjoy having you back, and she needed to know that there was a definite time when we were going to start a family.”

A year. Christ, no wonder Mary had always been so understanding about John going off on cases with Sherlock. She'd known that John was only going to be Sherlock's for a year before she snatched him away and tied him down with the responsibility of being a parent.

“We had such a lot of fun,” said John. “That year was – having you back, getting to watch you be brilliant again, it was-” He broke off, but it didn't matter. Sherlock knew exactly how John felt about it, because he felt the same. Only more, of course, because where John had been enjoying their friendship, Sherlock had been filled with all this inconvenient love.

“And at the end of it,” continued John, his fingers tightening on Sherlock's wrist, “Mary and I went to Brighton for our anniversary and she reminded me that our agreed deadline was up. She wanted us to start trying for a baby that night – she was so excited about it. And I- all I could think about was what it would mean I'd have to give up. I knew I couldn't do it. Even if I had, if I'd given in to Mary, I'd have resented it. Her, and whatever baby we had. I'd have listened to your stories about the cases I'd missed while doing nappy changes and 4am feeds and I'd have resented everything that kept me from joining you on them. That was- I couldn't do that to a child. No one should have that kind of father.”

John stopped and took a deep breath. Emotion was fogging his voice again and Sherlock wondered if the drug in their systems was still effecting them. If it was, that would explain why Sherlock felt as if this story was stabbing red hot knives into his belly.

“I asked Mary if we could wait another month or two,” continued John. “And she- Her face just crumpled. God, it was horrible. She knew then that I was never going to be ready, although we both kept pretending for months, until she managed to be far braver than me and ended it. And I moved back with you and got all that I’d missed so much back, but she's gone, and I don't- I messed it up completely. I let her down on the one thing she'd always told me she wanted from us.”

He was definitely sliding towards tears again. Sherlock rolled over onto his side and put an awkward arm around him. This had been so much easier when they'd both been temporarily insane.

John curled in towards him and rested his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder, taking in shuddering breaths and managing to fight back actual tears. Sherlock patted carefully at his shoulder and wondered if there were any words he was meant to be saying.

“I thought I could be that man,” said John into Sherlock's shirt. “I thought I could be part of a family like that, the rock that my wife and children could rely on. And maybe I could have been. Without you around, I needed something like that. But when you came back, it was- And now I've just proved it. I thought the cottage was on fire, and I got you out and left the baby. God, Sherlock, what's wrong with me?”

“Nothing,” said Sherlock immediately. That was an extremely easy question to answer. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with you, John. It is most likely that some part of your brain was aware that I was real and yet the baby was not.”

John let out a long breath that Sherlock could feel through his clothes. “I'm never going to have another chance,” he said. “If I couldn't make it work with Mary, I'll never be able to make it work. Every time we go to a crime scene, I stare at the corpse and think, _this is what you chose over your wife_. Who does that? Who turns down the chance of a family with a woman they love in order to be alone for the rest of their life?”

“You won't be alone,” said Sherlock. “I'll be there.”

John laughed at that, but it was a bitter laugh. “Not in that way. You’re so important to me, Sherlock, you know that, but we both also know that it’s not like that. I'll never be the most important person in someone else's life. Not now.”

Sherlock was silent for a second or two, debating how to respond to that. In the end, his mouth opened and the words came out before he could keep them in. The drug was definitely still affecting them, he decided as he heard himself say, “You're the most important person in my life, John. You have been for years.”

John let out a choked laugh. “I am when you've not got a case,” he acknowledged. “When there's a crime, though, the most important person in your life is whoever committed it. Right up until you catch them, of course, and then you lose all interest.”

“Not true,” said Sherlock. “You remain the most important person to me regardless of cases. If I had thought this current case would be detrimental to you, I wouldn't have taken it.”

John pulled away from Sherlock's arm to peer down at his face with a frown. “You actually mean it,” he said after a careful examination of Sherlock's expression. He sounded both surprised and a little awed.

His face was barely inches from Sherlock’s, his eyes wide and his pupils still dilated from the drug, and Sherlock wanted to kiss him excruciatingly badly. He suddenly realised just how vulnerable he was. If John found out his true feelings, that would ruin everything. He was letting the intimacy of their current position fool him into making confessions that were very dangerous.

“I very rarely say things I don't mean, John,” he said, sitting up and putting some distance between them. John blinked as if just realising how close they were, and pulled away as well, his expression closing up as if he was getting back some control over his emotions.

Sherlock glanced back at the cottage and was relieved to see that it appeared precisely as it should, with no sign of Moriarty or any other shadowy figures. “I suspect the drug is still having an effect on us, even thought the hallucinations have worn off,” he said. “It would probably be best to stay out of the cottage for a while, until it has been completely aired out.”

“Agreed,” said John, pulling himself back to lean against a tree. “Can't say I much fancy going in there again. Not for a while.”

Sherlock glanced at his watch. “We'll give it an hour,” he said. “And then I'll risk going in and getting the car keys, and we can have dinner in the village. By the time we return it should be safe.”

John nodded, looking at the cottage again as if it was filled with demons. “Sleeping's going to be fun tonight,” he muttered.

Sherlock took out his phone rather than bother responding. He'd already decided that sleep was going to be an unnecessary luxury tonight.

He started running through all the databases he could think of for any substance that matched the reactions they’d had. John sat beside him in silence for a few minutes and then rubbed his hands over his face, scrubbing away the traces of his tears.

“Right, I'm going for a walk,” he said.

Sherlock's head jerked up with panic at the idea of letting John out of his sight just yet. _Moriarty and all his men are dead,_ he reminded himself viciously. The cause of his desire to keep John close by was chemical, and lacked any logic.

“Try not to go too far,” he said. “I may need you if something comes up on here.” He waved his phone vaguely.

John stood up and then looked down at him with a faint smile that made Sherlock think that he knew precisely the cause of Sherlock's concern. “Just going to pop down to the beach,” he said. “I need to get my head together.”

Sherlock could understand that. He needed to do precisely the same thing, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to until he gained access to his violin. He nodded at John and then returned to his search of known hallucinogens.

****

He hadn't identified the substance when John came back, looking calmer. Sherlock watched John stroll towards him and noted the seven different ways in which he looked more relaxed than he had in months. Apparently, finally letting out all the details of his divorce, along with tears that he wouldn't have allowed himself if he hadn't been chemically affected, had given him some much-needed catharsis.

“Ready to risk getting the keys?” asked John, standing over Sherlock's sprawl against a tree.

Sherlock glanced back at the cottage. It looked perfectly innocent, but he couldn't shake the memory of Moriarty's claws closing around John's neck.

“I can do it if you want,” said John. “I need to grab my jacket, anyway. It's getting cold.”

Sherlock stood up. “I am perfectly capable of picking up some keys.”

“Right,” said John, sounding amused. “Come on, then.”

Sherlock scowled at him and turned to stride into the cottage, pushing aside all his residual fear. _It's just chemical,_ he reminded himself.

The air in the kitchen smelt a bit musty still, but there were no looming terrors. He picked up the dish that contained the burnt remains of the substance and dumped it straight out the window. He found the car keys and his own jacket and wallet, and then joined John by the front door, where he was clinging to his coat tighter than he needed to.

“Let's get out of here,” he said.

Going back out into the sunshine was like being let out of a prison. _So much for replacing my bad memories of this place with good ones,_ Sherlock thought. He couldn't imagine ever wanting to come back to the cottage, not now the terror of the phantom Moriarty was layered over the memory of the pain of withdrawal.

They drove in silence. Sherlock found himself concentrating on the roads far more than usual, as if some hidden danger was still waiting to leap out at him. He wondered if that was because of the lingering effects of the drug, or a psychological reaction to the level of fear he had experienced earlier.

John cleared his throat roughly as they drove past the sign welcoming them to Tredennick Wollas and asking them to drive carefully through the village.

“Um,” he started, and then paused for a moment before taking a breath and saying. “Look, I'm sorry about getting all emotional on you earlier. I know it's not your thing. It's not usually mine either.”

Sherlock glanced at him, but John was staring fixedly out of the window. Ah, the attempt to reclaim his sense of masculinity in the wake of an emotional outpouring.

“No need for apologies,” he said, trying to remember which of the identical little lanes led to the only pub that served decent food. “I was the one that drugged you, after all.”

“You think that was caused by whatever that was, then?” asked John.

“John, you're never that openly honest about things that cause you emotional distress,” said Sherlock, finding the pub. “Not without both alcohol and either sarcasm or belligerence coming in to play.”

John was silent for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, true,” he said. “And you're never that- touchy-feely, I suppose. We must both have been messed up still.”

Sherlock pulled into the carpark, concentrating on fitting the hire car into a space that was apparently designed for a mini in order to keep himself from telling John that he'd happily be that 'touchy-feely' more often if he thought John would let him get away with it.

He put on the handbrake and turned off the ignition, but didn't move to get out just yet. If John felt he had to apologise for his behaviour, then Sherlock almost certainly had to apologise for his.

He took a deep breath. “John, I think you should know that I deeply regret that my actions caused you – caused both of us such distress. I apologise. I should never have tested the substance like that without a better idea of what the effects would be.”

John gave him a startled look. “I agreed to it, didn't I? We were both idiots on this one, and I'm meant to be the sensible one.”

Sherlock couldn't hold in a laugh at that. “Only to people who don't know you very well.”

“I do my best,” protested John. “Not always easy with you around. Somehow you always make the very worst ideas sound like the most fun.”

“They usually are fun,” said Sherlock, finally moving to take the keys out of the ignition and open his door. “It's not often I make a judgement error like this one.”

John followed him out of the car. “You're aware that your idea of fun is different from other people's?”

Sherlock glanced at him over the roof of the car. “It's not different from yours.”

John smiled at him. “Well, that's true.”

Sherlock smiled back and wondered if he'd ever manage to control his heart so that it didn't leap when John looked at him like that.

The food in the pub was very generic. Sherlock could have written out the menu just by observing the décor and only ordered something because John insisted that he needed to eat to counter-balance the last, lingering remnants of the drug.

“Right,” said John once he'd got a pint in his hand. “So, what do we know now that we didn't earlier?”

“We know how the victims were driven insane or killed,” said Sherlock. “We know that someone added an unknown substance to their fire that caused terror, hallucinations and death. What we don't know is when the substance was added – how often did they light a fire? It's only just starting to get colder in the evenings; it's entirely possible that was the first fire they'd had in months. We also don't know where the drug itself came from. It's not local – I've looked up every known British hallucinogen and it matches none of them. I'm still working through those from abroad, but certainly it's not any of the common ones.”

“Abroad,” said John. “Have you checked all the Chinese ones?”

Sherlock held in a sigh. “Not every murder runs along the lines of cultural stereotypes, John.”

“We did say that Jay had the best motive and opportunity,” John reminded him.

“His parents disowned him for being too anglicised,” Sherlock reminded him. “Why would he use something from a culture he wasn't interested in being part of?”

John let out a breath. “All right, fine, just a thought,” he said. He sat back and took a sip of his pint. “Got any better ideas on where to start?”

Sherlock shrugged and pulled his phone back out to keep searching. “It's just a case of researching until I find it, unfortunately.”

“Right,” said John. “Another of those meals where I basically eat alone because you're glued to your phone, then.”

Sherlock made a humming noise, already distracted by what he was looking at.

“Brilliant,” muttered John.

****

Sherlock was deep into looking at the various substances that could be extracted from tropical frogs when John, getting restless after he'd finished his meal and nagged Sherlock into eating most of his, shifted and sighed.

“There's a photo of Sterndale over there,” he said. “Autographed. He must be some kind of local celebrity.”

Sherlock glanced over at it. The photo had been taken in a jungle somewhere. Sterndale had a camera bag slung over his shoulder and was standing next to David Attenborough with a smug, beaming grin. His autograph was a bold black scrawl, taking up half the bottom of the photo.

“Oh,” he said as realisation struck. “Oh, of course!” He abandoned his current website to look up where the last documentary Sterndale had worked on had been. “Rwanda,” he said. “Thousands of plants and animals that have never even been classified there.”

“You think it was Sterndale?” asked John. “But why would he have come back? Surely if you've just committed murder, it's a much better idea to go to South America for several months than to turn around and come straight back to the scene of the crime?”

“Not Sterndale,” said Sherlock, jumping up from the table. Sterndale would know who it was, though. As soon as he'd heard the full details, he'd have recognised the effects of the drug, and he'd know who would have had access to it. And he’d have gone straight there to confront them, only to find a harmless, garrulous old lady there instead and decide to wait until she was out. “Come on, John!”

John leapt to his feet and followed after Sherlock as he rushed out of the pub, heading for Mrs. Tregennis's house. Walking would be quicker than driving in a village this size.

“Where are we going?” asked John.

“Obvious!” called Sherlock over his shoulder. How had he been so irredeemably slow about this? Whatever that substance was had clearly had a debilitating effect on his intellect. Or maybe it had been the distraction caused by John's emotional outburst and physical proximity.

It was dark when they arrived at the bottom of Mrs. Tregennis's garden. Walking up through it and then knocking on the back door would be much quicker than going all the way around to the front door by the winding lane.

Jay rented both floors of the extension at the back, with a bedroom above and a small study below. Sherlock had seen into it for a moment the other night, when Jay had popped in to get some of his notes on the prehistoric settlements to show him. It was cluttered with books, papers and maps of the local area, and had a massive, ancient desk lit by a rather antique-looking lamp.

Pausing at the end of the garden, where a small stand of trees provided cover, Sherlock could see that the light in the study was on and that Jay was sat bent over the desk.

“Okay,” he said quietly to John. “We're going to-”

He cut himself off as the door of the study opened and Sterndale entered. Jay turned around to greet him.

“They look friendly enough,” said John as Sterndale and Jay shook hands and Sterndale took a seat.

Sherlock didn't bother replying. He glanced around the back garden, noting the cover available, and then back at the two men, who were now engrossed in conversation.

“Stay here,” he said, and set off to get closer to the window.

“Like hell,” he heard John mutter, and a moment later he darted after Sherlock.

Sherlock turned back to glare at him, but was ignored. He'd just have to hope that John's stealth skills were equal to the task.

He darted from tree to bush to the corner of the shed, then crouched low to cross to just underneath the window, shadowed by John the whole way. One of the windows was open a crack and it was enough to let voices filter out.

“-doctors are baffled,” Jay was saying. “I don't think they have the first clue how to start treating my brothers.”

“I'm sure they've still got tests they could run,” said Sterndale. “Modern medical science is an incredible thing, you know.”

The way he said it sounded more like a threat than a reassurance. Interesting.

“We can but hope,” said Jay. “I'm sorry, it was very kind of you to come, but I'm afraid I've got rather a lot of things to do this evening. Things for Lianhua's funeral. It’s so hard to organise these things when you’re the only family member left.”

Sterndale made an aggravated noise. “I’m sure Lianhua would have said that I was part of her family as well.”

“Perhaps, but you’re not really up to arranging a Chinese funeral, are you?”

“Whereas you care deeply about the culture,” snapped back Sterndale.

There was an awkward pause, then the sound of a chair scrapping. “I'm sorry, I really do have a lot to do.”

“Yes, yes,” said Sterndale. “I'll leave you in peace. I really am sorry for your loss. Whatever bastard was responsible will burn in the lowest pits of Hell.”

“Yes,” said Jay. “I'm sure they will. Goodbye.”

“Bye,” said Sterndale, and then there was a thump and a clatter. “Oh, I'm sorry!”

Sherlock risked a glance up, over the sill, to see that Sterndale had knocked the lamp off the desk.

“Let me-” said Jay, reaching to put it back, but Sterndale waved him off.

“No, no, my fault it fell, so I'll sort it out. There. Nothing's broken.”

“Thank you,” said Jay, sounding peeved.

Sterndale left with a very brief goodbye. Sherlock looked back at John to exchange puzzled looks. What had that been about? Had Sterndale really come to offer his condolences? He hadn’t sounded particularly sincere, but then-

An unpleasantly familiar smell was drifting down from the open window. Sherlock felt his eyes widen as the realisation kicked in. Of course! The lamp! If the light bulb had been on for a while, it would be more than hot enough to smoulder the substance.

Inside the room, Jay made a strange, choked noise. Sherlock sprang to his feet to bang on the window. “Get out!” he shouted.

Jay turned towards the noise, his face blanched of colour, and he started with horror at the sight of Sherlock. “No!” he gasped. “Oh god, no, please, no, please, I can't-”

“Get out of the room!” Sherlock shouted again. John dashed off in a flurry of motion. “You need to leave immediately!”

It was no good. Whatever the drug was, it was extremely rapid. Jay sunk to his knees, clawing at the neck of his shirt.

At that moment, the door of the room burst open and John rushed in. Terror gripped Sherlock. What the hell did John think he was doing, going into the room when they both knew exactly how potent the effects of the substance were?

John had his coat pulled up over his face, as if that would have any effect. He ran in, grabbed Jay's arm, and dragged him back out of the room.

Sherlock ran around the side of the house, heading for the front door so that he could make sure John was okay and then shout at him for putting his life in danger. As he turned the corner, he ran straight into someone with a collision that nearly knocked him off his feet.

“Watch it, idiot,” he snapped before he realised who it was.

Sterndale stared at him with shock for a moment, then turned on his heel and took off. Sherlock immediately chased after him. They rounded the house to the front garden where Jay was collapsed on the ground with John kneeling over him, saying something reassuring in a breathless voice. He looked up as Sterndale ran towards him, aiming for the gate out into the lane behind him.

“Stop him!” shouted Sherlock, but he didn't need to waste his breath. John had already stuck out his arm and grabbed Sterndale's ankle, bringing him crashing to the ground.

“No!” shouted Sterndale, fighting to get free as John threw himself at him.

“No point in struggling,” said Sherlock as he caught up. “John's extremely proficient at violence.”

John wrestled Sterndale into submission and then glanced up at Sherlock with a wry look. “Thanks,” he said. “That's always a great compliment.”

“Oh god,” moaned Jay. “The dead! The dead have risen!”

Sherlock spared him a glance. He looked completely out of it, but the fresh air would clear out his lungs soon enough and then he'd be fine. Probably.

“You fucking bastard,” said Sterndale bitterly to Jay, relaxing in John's grip. “Serve you right if the dead did rise, and Lianhua ripped your bloody lungs out.”

Jay made a terrified noise and curled up into a ball.

“Mrs. Tregennis?” Sherlock asked John.

John shook his head. “Not home.”

Sherlock felt himself relax and moved on to the next important piece of business. “Do you have any proof that Jay's the murderer?” he asked Sterndale.

“What?” said John. “Hang on, isn't Sterndale the one going around poisoning people?”

Sherlock let out a long sigh. How was John always so far behind? “Only this evening,” he said. “Jay is Lianhua’s murderer, of course.” He looked at Sterndale. “What's the name of the Rwandan substance?”

Sterndale gaped at him. “How do you know about that?”

“It was rather obvious,” said Sherlock.

Sterndale stared at him for a bit longer and then let out a long breath, clearly giving up. “Devil's-foot root,” he said. “I got it from this obscure tribe in Rwanda when we were doing the gorillas documentary last year. They use it as an ordeal poison – or they used to, now I think they just tell Westerners that they do, to add a touch of colour to the tour of their village. I'm pretty sure that I have the only example in Europe.” 

Then Sherlock couldn't have been expected to have heard of it, let alone identify it using the very basic equipment currently available to him. It hadn’t been a failure on his part after all.

“And you showed it to Jay,” he said.

Sterndale sighed. “Yes, I- Look, if I agree not to run, will you get off me?” he asked John. “It's actually rather hard to talk like this.”

John tipped his head to one side, clearly considering that. He glanced at Sherlock as if asking his opinion. Sherlock was suddenly filled with a wave of affection for the competent fighter aspect of John's multi-faceted personality.

“I think we can allow it,” he said, once the emotion had passed enough for him to speak without declaring his undying love for John. “Sterndale's only hope for revenge is through us now. Running would be a mistake.”

“Right then,” said John, climbing off Sterndale's back.

Sterndale sat up gingerly, wincing.

“Talk, then,” said Sherlock impatiently.

Sterndale sighed. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “I showed Jay months ago, just after I'd got home from Rwanda. He'd just moved back here for his research, and Mrs. Tregennis thought we should be friends. She gets a bit like that, you know – she's got so many kids that she treats the whole village like an extended family. She talked us into having dinner together, but it wasn't – well. We don't have much in common, and it was awkward as hell, and all he bloody wanted to talk about was his stupid prehistoric ruins. In a desperate bid to move the conversation onto something else, I showed him some of the stuff I'd brought back from Rwanda, including the devil’s-foot root.”

“When did you realise he'd taken some?” asked Sherlock.

Sterndale shook his head. “Not until after Lianhua was dead,” he said. “As soon as I heard how she'd died, I looked and found about half of it was gone. I knew it had to have been Jay, because he was the only person I'd mentioned it to.”

Sherlock nodded. That all fitted with what he'd concluded. “And I suppose his motive is somehow related to his family rift?”

“Rift?” said Sterndale. “That makes it sound like it was more than him just being a sulky bastard. I was around for the whole thing. I’ve been with Lianhua since we were at school, and she told me all about what was going on with Jay. How he’d gone off to uni and stopped calling home more than once a term, and then how he’d got a white girlfriend and her Dad had gone off the deep-end with shock. That was why we kept our relationship a secret for the first few years, because Lianhua was afraid she’d get disowned.”

“Like I was,” said Jay, rolling over onto his back to stare at Sterndale. Apparently he was done with worrying about the zombie apocalypse and was aware enough of what was going on to join in. Excellent. If he reacted to the drug like John had, there was a high chance they could get a confession out of him. Sherlock reached into his pocket and carefully turned on the voice recording function on his phone.

“They disowned me – their own son! - just because I had a white girlfriend for a few months. Bloody bigots! I told them I didn’t need anything from them, and I meant it. I cut off all my ties to them, didn’t take any calls from them, ripped up their letters, everything. I didn’t want to be told what a bad son I was. And then they died, and I came back for my research, and I find out that not only was Lianhua seeing a white guy, but that they’d been fine with it! Welcomed him in with open arms while I was on the outside!”

“You were on the outside because you wanted to be!” said Sterndale. “They wanted to mend things with you, but you never gave the chance. That’s why they were more understanding with Lianhua and me, although I wouldn’t have said ‘open arms’ came in anywhere. I had to work bloody hard to get them to accept me. We were engaged for a year before Lianhua thought we could tell them, and even then her Dad never actually congratulated us. Bloody ridiculous. Any other set of parents would be pleased to have me as a potential son-in-law. I mean, I know David Attenborough! It doesn't get any more respectable than that.”

“He didn’t throw her out for seeing you though!” burst out Jay. “Didn’t stop you coming around for dinner – I saw the photos. All of you sitting around, smiling, with you in my place.”

Sterndale made an exasperated noise. “Yes, I told you. They learnt from their earlier mistakes. They didn’t want her to disappear and never call them again like you did. You little shit.”

“None of them bothered to tell me I could call,” said Jay. “And it's not as if any of my siblings contacted me until after our parents were dead and I was back in Tredannick Wollas. They didn’t care enough to send a quick email. ‘By the way, we don’t hate you.’ It’s only because Brenda Tregennis invited them around for dinner when I came back here that they even talked to me then. I let it go though, I tried to heal the rift, and then I found out that you were basically part of the family. It was so unfair! Why should Lianhua be allowed to go out with a white guy when I was condemned for my white girlfriend?”

“So you killed her,” said Sherlock.

“Yes!” said Jay. “Wouldn't you have?”

Ah, and there was the confession. Sherlock beamed at him. “No,” he said. “Not over something so stupid.” He turned off the recording on his mobile. “I was disowned too,” he added. “I managed to avoid becoming homicidal over it.”

John threw him a startled look and Sherlock knew he'd be getting questions about that later. Damn, should have kept his mouth shut.

“Okay,” said John. “So, what, we've got one murderer, and one attempted murderer? Not a bad day's work.”

“Indeed,” said Sherlock. “I suppose we should let the police get involved.”

Jay let out a defeated moan. Sherlock glanced at him, but he was still shaking from the drug and almost certainly not a flight risk.

Sterndale tensed. “You're not going to report me, are you?”

“Why wouldn't I?” asked Sherlock.

Sterndale made a face. “Come on – I only did it because I thought it was the only way to get justice. I know how useless the police are around here. If I'd told them I was the source of the root, they'd have been far more likely to arrest me than Jay.”

That was almost certainly true. Local police would be looking for the easiest and most straight-forward suspect to save themselves from too much hassle.

“You still tried to kill someone,” John pointed out.

“I had to!” said Sterndale. “How could I let him get away with it? I loved Lianhua – she was the only woman I‘ve ever loved. That I’ve ever wanted. We’ve been together for over ten years, while I carefully jumped through her family’s hoops so that when we got married, it would be with all of them there. He stole that from me.” He stopped and took a long, ragged breath. “If you have ever loved anyone, perhaps you understand how it feels to have lost that, and then to realise that there was no way to see justice done.”

Sherlock knew exactly how that felt. Moriarty had torn Sherlock away from John and then killed himself so that Sherlock couldn't even get revenge for his actions. He hadn't realised until those three years away just how terrible it was to love someone and yet not be able to see them. It made loving someone who would never return the feelings but who was at least around and willing to make tea for you seem like a form of the heaven that Sherlock had never believed in.

“I'd have done anything for her,” said Sterndale. He ducked his head and took in a shaking breath. “God! I'd do it again – I'd slit his throat now, if I thought you'd let me. Would you do any less if he'd hurt someone you'd loved?”

Sherlock sat very quietly for a moment, examining Sterndale. He looked exactly as anguished as he claimed to be and Sherlock felt an uncharacteristic amount of sympathy. He’d have done exactly the same in Sterndale’s place. Well, almost exactly the same. He’d have been more successful and not let himself be caught.

“I've done a lot worse,” he said, and then took a deep breath. “What were you planning to do when you left here?”

“Go to Brazil,” said Sterndale. “Bury myself in my work. What else is there for me now? Lianhua was everything.”

Not exactly the kind of man who was likely to attempt murder again. “Go on, then,” said Sherlock. “I won't stop you.”

Sterndale gave him a startled look. Sherlock ignored it in favour of dialling the police, avoiding looking at John and seeing his reaction to that. “I'd be quick,” he added. “The police would probably want to ask you questions if they found you here.”

“I- Right,” said Sterndale. He climbed to his feet. “Thanks.”

Sherlock waved that away and put the phone to his ear. “Go!”

Sterndale turned and ran off towards the back garden.

“Right,” said John with a sigh. “And what, exactly, are we going to tell the police?”

“That we came over to ask Jay some questions and found him like that, with no sign of anyone else here,” said Sherlock.

“And what about when Jay tells them that Sterndale was here?”

Sherlock looked at Jay. “Him? He's hallucinating. Been drugged, you know.”

****

By the time the police finished with them and they'd driven back to the cottage, it was very late. When Sherlock pulled up in the drive though, neither of them moved to get out. Sherlock eyed the blank windows and and told himself firmly that there were no shadows moving inside.

“So, you were disowned?” asked John, as if the reason they were staying inside the car was to make conversation about Sherlock's past.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “My father claimed it was because of the drugs, but as it coincided with him finding out that I was engaged in a sexual relationship with a man, I've always had my doubts.”

“Oh,” said John, sounding surprised. Sherlock wasn't sure why – surely it must be obvious at this point that even if he hadn't decided to stay celibate, he wouldn't have anything to do with women?

“This bloke, then,” said John, eyeing the cottage with as much trepidation as Sherlock was feeling. “Were you close?”

“Friends, of a sort,” said Sherlock. Was he really going to sit here and talk about Victor just to avoid going into a cottage that he knew was perfectly harmless? “This is ridiculous,” he announced. “Come on.”

He opened his car door and strode towards the cottage. A moment later, John followed him.

_There's nothing inside,_ thought Sherlock fiercely as he unlocked the door.

They turned on more lights than were strictly necessary once they were inside and John went straight to the kitchen, where he opened the door wide and took a careful look around. He turned back to find Sherlock watching him and gave an embarrassed shrug.

“Yeah, it is pretty ridiculous,” he agreed.

Sherlock let out a sigh. “I apologise, John,” he said. “I'm afraid I have negated the purpose of this holiday with my experiment.”

“The purpose of the holiday?” asked John.

“To ameliorate your emotional condition in the wake of your divorce,” clarified Sherlock.

“Ameliorate,” repeated John with more amusement than Sherlock thought the word called for. “Yeah, okay, maybe I'm a bit tense now, but it has helped. I do appreciate you organising it.”

Sherlock wasn't sure how to respond to that so he just gave a nod and glanced up the stairs towards the bedrooms. Would it be too much to ask John to sleep in the same room as him so that he could be sure he was safe? Almost certainly.

_There's nothing here,_ he reminded himself again. He really needed to get control of his emotional responses.

“That said,” continued John, “I'm not sure I'm all that keen on spending two more days here. Would it be okay if we headed home tomorrow?”

Sherlock felt his chest relax. “More than fine,” he said. “I'll be able to run a proper analysis on the devils-foot root.”

“No burning it,” said John sharply.

“Of course not,” said Sherlock. “I've learnt my lesson on that one.”

“Right,” said John. He took a deep breath. “We'll leave first thing tomorrow, then.”

He headed past Sherlock to go upstairs, and Sherlock had to clench his fists to stop himself from reaching for him and pulling him into an embrace as tight as the one they had shared on the grass earlier, just to reassure himself that John was still alive and well. He wondered if the drug was still affecting him, or if this was another of the symptoms of being in love.

****

Sherlock didn't sleep at all that night. He sat up with his light on, holding a book but barely seeing the words as his mind wandered from one John-inspired thought to another. He couldn’t help imagining precisely what his life would have become if John had chosen Mary and children over the cases, and when he managed to pull himself away from that, it was only to think about what Sterndale had said. _Would you do any less if he'd hurt someone you'd loved?_ If anybody ever hurt John, let alone killed him, Sherlock would tear them apart with his bare hands and damn the consequences.

It was several hours before he heard John having a nightmare. He wondered if John had actually managed several hours of peaceful sleep or if he had been lying awake and the nightmare had struck as soon as he’d gone to sleep.

There was the usual thrashing, interspersed with soft cries, amplified by the silent atmosphere in the rest of the house. Sherlock clutched tighter at his book and waited for John to shake himself awake. He’d decided a long time ago that John wouldn’t appreciate having the privacy of his sleep invaded, not even for Sherlock to rouse him for a nightmare. It wasn’t as if it ever took him particularly long to wake up, anyway.

There was a thump and then quiet, and Sherlock let himself relax. John must have woken.

The quiet continued for a minute or two and then there was the sound of shuffling steps and a door opening. The footsteps continued to the top of the stairs, then paused. Sherlock imagined John staring down into the darkness of the ground floor, his mind filled with nightmare images and memories of his hallucinations from earlier.

The footsteps never continued downstairs. Instead, they turned to Sherlock’s door and there was a light tap on it, and a whisper from John. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock thought about the way that his bedroom light must shine underneath the door and sighed. “Yes?” he said.

The door opened and John came in, blinking against the light. “Oh, you’re awake,” he said, rather moronically. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

“I haven’t tried,” said Sherlock.

John nodded. He came inside and sat down on the edge of Sherlock’s bed as if Sherlock’s words had been an invitation. That close, Sherlock could see that he looked exhausted, far more so than would be caused by a single nightmare. He must have been lying awake before that. “Yeah, probably a better decision than mine to give it a try and hope for the best.”

He was sat so close to Sherlock that their legs were touching, although the duvet separated them.

“Well, you ascribe a higher importance to sleep than I do,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Yeah,” agreed John, but didn’t add anything further. 

The silence of the night and the darkness that engulfed everywhere outside the room, not to mention the intimacy of them both sat on the same bed while in pyjamas was quietly sending Sherlock insane. He couldn’t keep himself from envisaging all the ways that he could take advantage of this. 

_Perhaps we’d sleep better if we shared the same space, John._

_Let me give you a platonic gesture of reassurance and comfort in the form of an embrace, John._

_Should I mention that you’re welcome in my bedroom whenever you have a nightmare, John?_

“'I've done a lot worse',” remarked John eventually.

Sherlock blinked. “What?”

“That's what you said when Sterndale said that you'd have done the same if you'd loved someone who'd been murdered. ‘I've done a lot worse.'”

Sherlock felt his blood freeze.

“What's your point?” he snapped, trying to make his demeanour as uninviting of further questions as he could. _Please, John,_ he begged in his mind. _Please let this go._

John didn't let it go. “My point is that I don't think you meant your 'friend of a sort' that you mentioned last night, so I was wondering-”

“Don't,” said Sherlock. “It's really none of your business.”

He couldn't meet John's eyes. The moment of closeness in the darkness had been soured by the question and he turned away, shutting his book and slapping it down onto the bedside table, praying that his world wasn't about to implode just because of five ill-considered words.

There was silence for six seconds and then John let out a tiny breath of realisation. Sherlock's heart clenched in his chest.

“But it is my business, isn't it?” said John softly. “Sherlock, I didn't-”

Sherlock couldn't stand this. “No,” he interrupted. “It's not your business. It's mine and mine alone. Any emotions I may have are completely my own, and have no impact on you at all. This doesn't have anything to do with- with us. Our friendship.”

He couldn't help looking at John then. John was staring at him with shocked wonder, as if Sherlock had revealed himself to be an alien or something equally implausible. Sherlock bit hard at his tongue.

“There's no need for you to think, speak, or allude to this ever again,” he said.

“Right,” said John, but he didn’t move. He just kept looking at Sherlock with wide eyes, as if his entire world was changing.

_Get out get out get out_ , thought Sherlock.

“I’m going to sleep now,” he announced. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He glared at John until he stood up with a sigh. “Right. See you in the morning.”

Sherlock didn’t bother replying to that. He moved down under the covers, turning his back on John.

John sighed again and then left the room, shutting the door quietly behind himself. Sherlock clicked the light out to lend credence to his lie and then lay there, shaking with the realisation that he had just destroyed everything. Tomorrow they’d go back to London and how long after that until John started to pull away, became even busier with work and never had time for the cases and then found some reason to leave Baker Street?

He was shaking. He could hear his breathing coming out harsh and quick. If he could hear it, John could as well. He pulled the covers over his head and concentrated very hard on calming down, but he couldn’t stop himself from twitching at every tiny noise the cottage made, as if each one might be John about to burst back in here and tell him that he wouldn’t ever be able to stand looking at him again.

_Ridiculous. You’re being ridiculous._

He couldn’t make himself believe it.

****

He had all his belongings packed up and ready to go by dawn, and put the kettle on to boil as soon as he heard John stirring. He moved to the sitting room when he heard John coming downstairs, though. Better to be out of the way while John collected himself.

“Oh, fantastic,” he heard John say when he got downstairs and found the mug waiting for him. 

Sherlock tried to ignore it, but all his efforts were wasted when John brought his tea into the sitting room rather than drinking it in the kitchen.

“Thanks,” he said, holding the mug up in salute.

Sherlock could only manage a nod in response.

John gave a little sigh and collapsed into a chair. All seven of the signs that he'd had a sleepless night were present, as well as an eighth that Sherlock had never identified before.

_Your fault,_ a voice in his head reminded him. _If you hadn't dragged him into such a spectacularly stupid experiment, and then foolishly let him realise your feelings..._

Sherlock took a breath. “There's a train to London in an hour.”

“Oh, right,” said John, taking a sip of the tea. “Christ, going to take me more than an hour to be awake today, I think. Haven’t slept that badly in years. Probably not since Afghanistan and all those bloody night shifts.”

Oh god, was he really going to torture Sherlock with small talk right now?

“Yes, yes, I know,” snapped Sherlock. “'I was in the Army, and therefore you've never known hardship like I have.'”

John stared at him. “Sherlock, I spent almost all my time in a semi-permanent camp that included a McDonald's,” he said. “It wasn't the Somme.”

Sherlock didn’t have a response to that. He looked down at the way his hands were clenched and wondered how much his body language was giving away right now. He couldn’t seem to control any of it.

John let out a long sigh and sat forward. “Look, Sherlock. It’s not- You don’t need to be tense. I can take a hint, and it’s very clear you don’t want to talk about it.”

Sherlock stared at him. John’s face was earnest and open, as if he truly was offering Sherlock this chance to just forget it all. He was prepared to just let it go, like Sherlock had wanted.

He was filled with love for him and had to duck his head into a nod, breaking their shared gaze. “Right,” he said in a gruff voice, and then immediately wanted to rip his vocal chords out.

John gave a nod and sat back, concentrating on his tea again. Sherlock took the chance to pull in a breath. He needed to act as if nothing had happened. The more they continued as they had always been – friends - the easier it would be for John to ignore the rest.

“We’ll need half an hour to get to the station and return the car,” he said. “I hope you’ve already packed.”

“Yeah, about that,” said John. “I was thinking that maybe we should stay.”

Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from staring. Was he insane? He wanted to stay here, in Cornwall, where only terrible things ever seemed to happen, on an intimate holiday with the man who he had just discovered had unwanted feelings for him? 

“What?”

“Well, it seems stupid to let a couple of hallucinations cut short the best holiday I’ve had in ages,” said John. “And a bit rude, given that you organised it to help me. And it has helped me, you know. It’s been great.”

Sherlock took control of his face to stop himself from continuing to stare like a gormless idiot. “You can’t have slept more than fifteen minutes at a time last night.”

“No,” acknowledged John. “Well, that’ll just mean I’ll sleep really well tonight, right? Especially if we go out and do something active.”

Sherlock’s bones ached with exhaustion. The idea of doing anything more than sitting on a train today, particularly the kind of pointless holiday activity that John meant, made him want to scream.

“This holiday was for your benefit,” he said. “If you think you can still gain some benefit, then we will stay.”

John smiled. “Good!” he said. “Right then, I’m making toast for breakfast, and then a packed lunch, and we’re going out on the moors. I know there’s still a couple of things you want to look at in the ruins.”

There was absolutely nothing Sherlock wanted to know about the sodding ruins that they couldn’t find out from Wikipedia. He nodded as John left the room and then slumped back into his chair. Christ, if it had been anyone else, they’d be in the car on the way to the station by now, regardless of what they wanted. This love thing was incredibly inconvenient.

****

They spent hours rambling on the moors. John asked Sherlock a few questions about subjects he knew Sherlock was interested in until Sherlock gave up on his attempt to try not to force his personality on John too much in light of recent revelations, and found himself talking about length about prehistoric civilisations, British poisons and hallucinogens, and why he preferred Beethoven to Mozart.

By the time they stopped for lunch, the events of the night before had taken on the tinge of a dream, as if they were just another horrific hallucination that had no effect on their continuing lives. Sherlock had been unable to detect any difference in the way that John was reacting to him or any hidden elements to his cheerful pleasure at the walk and their conversation. He was quiet, but then he often was when they were outdoors. He seemed content to listen to Sherlock speak, adding the occasional comment but mostly just focusing on the world around them. Occasionally he glanced at Sherlock with a small smile that made Sherlock start to believe that maybe nothing would change. Maybe John really would be able to just ignore the whole thing and continue to react to Sherlock as he always had.

By mid afternoon, as they stood on a small rise and looked down towards the bay and their cottage with John close enough to Sherlock for their arms to brush when he swung too quickly to look at the view in the opposite direction, Sherlock was sure of it. They were going to be able to go on as they had before. It was the most incredible relief he’d ever felt.

“It really is beautiful here,” said John, as if he hadn’t made his opinion on that very clear since they’d arrived in Cornwall.

Sherlock looked at him, memorising for the thousandth time the precise configuration of John's facial features and the exact layout of the lines around his eyes. He felt himself filling up with love for him and had to abruptly turn away to avoid a rash declaration. Just because John knew didn’t mean that he could get away with that kind of thing.

When he looked back, John was looking at him rather than the view.

“Sherlock,” he said in a low voice that signalled trouble. “It’s- I know you don’t want to talk about it, but there is something I think I should say.”

Sherlock tensed. So much for forgetting the whole thing. “Don’t,” he snapped, and turned to head back towards the cottage.

John caught his arm. “Don't run away,” he said quickly. “Please, Sherlock. I need you to just listen, okay? It’s not – I’d stay quiet, I would, if it wasn’t- Please, Sherlock. This is hard enough without you refusing to listen.”

He gave Sherlock an earnest look of entreaty and despite how ready Sherlock was to run away, that was all it took to get him to stay still. He glared at John as fiercely as he could. “I reserve the right to walk away at any time I choose,” he said.

John nodded several times. “Yes, okay, but please just let me get this out first, okay?” He took a breath. “I’ve been thinking about this since last night, Sherlock. I don’t – it was a surprise, okay? It took me a while to really just get past that.”

“Don’t think about it and you won’t need to,” said Sherlock.

John shook his head. “Doesn’t work like that. And anyway, look, it’s-” He stopped and shut his eyes for a moment, then opened them with a look of pleading that Sherlock didn’t understand. What did John have to plead for?

“Sherlock, I'm still recovering from a painful divorce. I did really love Mary, and it hurts that things are over with her. But I spent all last night, and most of today, thinking that it would be stupid not to acknowledge that the reason we divorced was because I had to choose between having a family with her, and you. And you won.”

Sherlock's mind seemed to stutter and then stop. _He’s just going to tell me how important our friendship is. He won’t want to lose it, not now he’s sacrificed Mary for it._ The thought dropped into the empty, echoing space that his brain had become without prompting any responses either in support or opposition.

John reached out and gripped Sherlock's hand tightly enough to hurt. “In fact, you've always won, when it came to my girlfriends. I loved Mary so much, but I just-” He cut himself off and looked down at the grass for a long moment before looking back at Sherlock with resolution in his eyes. “You were always more important to me. I don’t think it is just your business – I think maybe it’s- I think it’s mine too. I’ve spent all day thinking about it, imagining being more than friends, and it’s- Well. I could do that. I want to do that. If you do.”

Sherlock wasn't sure he was breathing. The wind over the moor seemed to have risen to form a dull roaring in his ears. John’s stilted, stuttering words were the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard and he wanted to have them recorded so that he could listen to them over and over again.

He’d never once let himself truly believe that John might ever return his feelings, or even have any interest in Sherlock as anything other than a friend. He wondered if he was hallucinating – perhaps the drug was still affecting him, and was inducing euphoria rather than terror for some reason. That seemed the only reasonable explanation for how he could have missed something like this. He was meant to be a detective, after all. How could he have not noticed that John felt like this about him?

He’d just been so sure that John didn’t feel like that that he’d dismissed anything that looked like evidence to the contrary. _Theorising before the facts_ he thought. _God, how embarrassing._

“Sherlock?” asked John. “Are you okay? You're not saying anything.”

Sherlock sucked in a deep, ragged breath. “Fine,” he said in a stilted voice that highlighted the lie. “I'm not sure what response you're looking for.”

John pursed his lips. “I'm just- I'm saying that it might be worth actually talking about this, rather than hiding from it. You did- you were talking about me when you said that to Sterndale, right?”

He suddenly sounded tentative and Sherlock realised that he’d made his entire confession based on five words that Sherlock had never actually confirmed were about him. _Time to be honest,_ he thought. _Think of what you might get out of it._

Part of him couldn’t help thinking about what he might lose as well, but he over-ruled it. That ship had sailed; now it was time to reach out with both hands and all the hope he could muster.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. He looked at where John's hand was still gripping his. _You need to say more than that,_ he thought, but he couldn't seem to string together enough words to form a sentence.

_This is ridiculous,_ he told himself sharply after several seconds of silence had passed by and worry was starting to grow on John's face. _You're a genius. Manage some coherence._

“I would have done a lot more than poisoned Jay, if it had been you he'd murdered,” he said. “I'd have- he'd have suffered for days.”

That didn't seem like a particularly good thing to confess to. He probably should have started somewhere else.

“Okay,” said John. “Well, same here. If it had been you, I mean.”

Sherlock stared at him for long enough to see the truth of that in his eyes and then felt his face relax into a beaming grin. John felt the same way that Sherlock did. There was a possibility of more than friendship.

“Do you want-” started John, and then hesitated and looked back at their hands, now clinging to each other tightly enough for Sherlock to feel the shape of John's bones under his skin.

“I want everything,” he said, because that was easy. Was that too much, though? He'd settle for anything, as long as he got John. He should probably clarify. “Whatever it is you want, I want that too. As much or as little as you want. Just- I want you happy. And with me.”

It seemed he still had a way to go before he managed true coherence, but he thought he'd managed to get his point across. John was beaming back at him with just as much happiness as Sherlock could feel bubbling up in his chest, so certainly he must have said something right.

“Good,” said John. “That's very good.”

There was a moment or two where they just smiled at each other and Sherlock felt as if he was going to explode with joy. A very distant part of his mind began to worry that this whole thing was having a deleterious effect on his brain, but he couldn't bring himself to care right then.

The moment broke when John let out a short sigh and looked down again. The happiness had faded from his face to be replaced with worry and Sherlock immediately wanted to do anything it took to change it back.

“God,” said John. “It's just such shitty timing. Although, saying that, I'm not sure when would have been good timing for us. Right before my wedding, when you'd just come back from the dead? Just before Moriarty forced you into faking your own death and leaving me alone for three years?”

“What's wrong with the timing?” asked Sherlock. “We're both single, we're living together, neither of us is about to disappear to take out an international crime ring as far as I’m aware.”

“I just got divorced,” John said. “I said at the start – this doesn't make breaking up with Mary any less painful.”

Sherlock scowled.

“Although,” reflected John, “it does make it seem more inevitable.”

“If Moriarty hadn't forced me to leave, you'd never have married her,” said Sherlock. He'd known that since he'd sat in a drafty church and watched John pledge his life to someone else, when he'd detailed all the ways he could have nipped the relationship in the bud if he'd been there for its inception.

John hesitated and then gave a stiff nod. “Yeah, probably,” he said, and he sounded sad again. That wouldn't do – this should be a happy moment. It certainly was for Sherlock.

John's hand was still clasped in his, but it wasn't enough any more. Enough talking, he decided. Time to start this thing properly.

He tugged at John’s hand, bringing him close enough for Sherlock to bend his head and press a kiss against his lips. 

It was so careful as to be gentle, if Sherlock could ever imagine himself indulging in such a thing. John let out a quiet sigh and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, but he didn't push for more. When Sherlock pulled away, John tugged him back so that he could rest his forehead against Sherlock's.

“Yes,” he said. “Sherlock, I need you to know that that this is all a 'yes' for me, but I think I need it to move slowly.”

Slowly was so much better than not moving at all. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to care if they spent years doing nothing more than this right now, not when he was still coming to terms with the idea that even this tiny much was apparently allowed.

“As much or as little as you want,” he reminded John.

“Oh, I want it all,” said John, and his hand tightened on Sherlock's shoulder. “Just, not all at once.”

“Just tell me what you want when, then,” said Sherlock.

“Right now, I think I want you to kiss me again,” said John. 

Sherlock was more than happy to comply.

****

Two days later, they shut up the cottage and left the keys with Mrs. Tregennis.

She fussed about how sad it was they were leaving, but as she had three of her children at her house, not to mention a whole handful of grandchildren running about underfoot, Sherlock didn't bother staying for longer than he had to.

On the train, Sherlock relaxed back into his seat with a sigh that made John smile at him. “Relieved to be leaving Cornwall?”

Sherlock thought about that for a long moment. “Actually, I think it’s beginning to grow on me,” he said, and reached out to take John’s hand.

John squeezed his fingers. “Good,” he said. “Then you won’t mind coming back next year.”

Sherlock let out a groan, but he wasn’t sure he meant it. 

He and John had done little more than exchange a handful of kisses, although John had arranged them so that Sherlock was sprawled against him as they finally watched his superhero film the night before. The sensation of having John’s body pressed against most of his had entirely distracted him from the appalling plot and worse dialogue, and had left him relaxed and thrumming with contentment by the time the credits had rolled. John had kissed him before disappearing into his bedroom and Sherlock had spent half an hour carefully encoding the experience in the most secure part of his Mind Palace.

_Move slowly,_ he’d thought, when the temptation to go into John’s room and join him in bed had become nearly too much to bear. John wanted to move slowly, so they would.

By next year though, Sherlock was confident that they’d be at the stage where he could persuade John to spend the entire week in bed with him. That seemed like a much better way to use a week in Cornwall than wandering around looking at the landscape, especially as he couldn’t count on another murder happening.

John looked out of the window. “It is really lovely here.”

Sherlock looked at his contented expression, compared it with the tense misery he’d shown before they’d left London and congratulated himself on how well his plan to cheer John up with a holiday had gone.

“Yes,” he agreed, and smiled.


End file.
